


Heartaches By The Number - Compilation

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Sherlock shot CAM, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Caring John, Cheating, Custody Arrangements, Dance lesson, Declarations Of Love, Detailed description of surgical site, Difficult Decisions, Dream blowjob, Emotional Infidelity, Explicit Sexual Content, False Identity, Frottage, Heartache, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, John and Mary's Wedding, John returns to Mary, John visits Sherlock's cell, John worries about the future, Johnlock Roulette, Loss of Virginity, Love Triangles, M/M, Mary meddles, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft has a plan, Mycroft's legal research, POV Alternating, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Poor Life Choices, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Asshole, Sherlock comes home from hospital, Sherlock recovering from gunshot, Tender Sex, Tenderness, They still haven't talked about Very Important Things, Unsafe Sex, Waltzing, Wedding Planning, Wet Dream, Why Mary shot Sherlock, Why Sherlock and John didn't speak for a month, Worry, everyone is morally bankrupt, lying to your wife, poor decisions, sad wanking, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events, they finally have The Very Important Conversation, waltzing nude, wedding rehersal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The London Sherlock returns to after his ‘resurrection’ is vastly different than what he’d expected. But he isn’t going to let that stop him from pursuing his old life, including John Watson.</p><p>John’s engaged to a lovely nurse and has everything he thought he ever wanted. Then why can’t he stay out of his best friend’s bed?</p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic. This fic was originally posted as a series on AO3. This is a compilation of the series into one fic.</p><p>HEED THE TAGS because everyone is morally bankrupt in this fic.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number," a popular country song written by Harlan Howard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heartache Number One

**Author's Note:**

> Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score  
> Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more  
> Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win  
> But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end
> 
> Heartache number one was when you left me  
> I never knew that I could hurt this way  
> And heartache number two was when you come back again  
> You came back but never meant to stay
> 
> Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score  
> Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more  
> Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win  
> But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end
> 
> Heartache number three was when you called me  
> And said that you were coming back to stay  
> With hopeful heart I waited for your knock on the door  
> I waited but you must have lost your way
> 
> Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score  
> Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more  
> Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win  
> But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end

_Heartache number one was when you left me_   
_I never knew that I could hurt this way_

~ _Heartaches by the Number_ , written by Harlan Howard

 

~*~

 

John’s mouth was open; he gazed at Sherlock with something akin to worship. “Amazing. Truly fantastic. That was. Simply amazing.”

Sherlock glanced sideways at John without turning his head. Yes, his deductions at the crime scene earlier that evening had been brilliant, but really, John was going overboard this time. “Hmmm?” He made a noncommittal sound in his throat, more to keep John talking than a real reply.

John leaned forward in his chair, tumbler of golden whiskey held loosely between his knees. “What gave it away? What detail did you see that the entirety of Scotland Yard would otherwise have missed? After all these years, I still don’t understand how you can see what everyone else overlooks.”

The tender dark pink inside of John’s lower lip glistened in the dim lamplight. Sherlock stared at it, transfixed. John licked his lips then closed them in a small smile. To cover his disquiet, Sherlock took a long pull of his own drink. “I don’t understand how other people can’t see things. I can’t tell you how I do it because it’s just ordinary to me.”

John beamed at him. Something in those dark blue eyes, soft and fond, pulled Sherlock forward and gave him courage he’d never found before. He leaned all the way into John’s personal space, tilted his head, and placed his lips gently on John’s.

Breathing stopped for a moment. Neither was sure who gasped first. Was it John, in surprise? Or Sherlock, in awe at the feeling of John’s lips under his. The pause seemed to stretch on and on, when in reality it passed in a second.

John surged forward, slotting his lips more firmly to Sherlock’s, grasping the nape of Sherlock’s neck with one hand while the other went to Sherlock’s waist. Their knees knocked then tangled, an annoying barrier to touch. At last John fitted his knees between Sherlock’s and slid to the floor, bringing Sherlock down with him.

Sherlock took over the kiss, crowding John’s space, crouching over him, their height difference even more evidenced when kneeling than it was when they were standing. He slid both hands into John’s hair, cupping his head and angling it so their lips met perfectly. John groaned and opened his mouth, slightly; Sherlock dove in, tongue exploring the soft insides of both of John’s lips, his small, even teeth, the firm tissue behind his top teeth. John groaned again. His tongue met Sherlock’s, caressing, forcing Sherlock’s back as John explored the terrain inside Sherlock’s lips.

They separated, John’s head still cradled in Sherlock’s big hands. Sherlock searched John’s eyes for an answer to the question he’d stifled since the day they met: did John want him the way he wanted John? And there, in the indigo depths, Sherlock saw a desire matching his own. He ducked again, kissing John roughly, one hand rubbing down John’s spine to cup his buttock and draw their bodies closer together. John shifted his weight then settled against Sherlock, lean and compact and hard in all the right places.

Sherlock’s other hand trailed back to his chair to find purchase in the seat cushion. He leaned back, still clasping John tightly to him, and hauled them both to their feet. John leaned against him with one knee between Sherlock’s, his hip thrust forward firmly against Sherlock’s thigh. There was no mistaking John’s reaction to their snogging - Sherlock couldn’t have ignored it if he’d tried. While he’d never actually seen John naked during the years of their cohabitation, he’d strongly suspected that John was well endowed below the belt. The evidence of John’s endowment put shame to Sherlock’s conjecture. John was, indeed, huge.

Sherlock’s hands tore at John’s belt. With it finally out of the way, he made short work of John’s button fly jeans, roughly shoving them down John’s thighs until they dropped to his ankles. One hand still clasping John’s buttock and the other groped for the waistband of John’s boxer briefs. Impatient, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and placed it over his erection on the outside of his pants, pulling it firmly to him, palm side cupping the hot bulge. Sherlock groaned, pressing his palm into John’s heat, sliding the heel of his hand up and down the smooth cotton between their flesh.

Sherlock grasped John’s wrist. He tugged, pulling John through the kitchen and down the hall toward his bedroom. John tripped eagerly behind him. His stocking feet slipped slightly on the lino and hardwood but the insistent pressure of Sherlock’s hand around his wrist propelled him through the bedroom door.

Sherlock spun toward John, gathering him to his chest, ducking to plant a rough kiss on John’s jaw. He backed them toward the bed and when the back of John’s legs connected with it, Sherlock gently pressed him to sit. John did, spreading his knees, raising his face for kiss after kiss. Fingers working his own belt and flies open, Sherlock kept up his assault on John’s lips, sucking first the upper one between his and then the lower, nipping gently. When his trousers finally fell to the floor around his ankles, Sherlock dropped to his knees.

He looked up at John intently. “You want this?” Sherlock rasped.

John nodded.

“Then say it.”

“I want this.”

“No, say it! What you said that first day, when I asked if you wanted to come on the serial suicide case. Say it.”

John looked down at Sherlock’s flushed face. A sly smile curved his lips. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “Oh, god, yes.”

Sherlock’s features lit up. He held John’s gaze for another moment, then turned his attention to John’s shirt, slipping the buttons through the buttonholes with one hand and dragging it roughly down John’s arms. He shoved John’s white v-neck vest up under his arms and rose up on his knees to nibble at the patch of golden hair covering John’s chest. “Oh, god, yes.” John slipped both hands into Sherlock’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp, pulling him up for more kisses.

Sherlock worked his thumbs into the waistband of John’s pants and lifted the elastic waistband over John’s erection. John shifted so Sherlock could pull them down his thighs, over his bent knees and off his feet. John gasped when Sherlock touched him without the impediment of cotton. Sherlock’s fingers played up and down, exploring veins and contours as lightly as a blind person explores a new acquaintance's face.

“Oh, god, yes.” John said it over and over. Each new caress, each new sensation brought sighs and a new inflection of “Oh, god, yes.” And when Sherlock bent and swallowed him down in one fluid motion, John choked the words in discrete sentences. “Oh. God. Yes.”

 

Afterward, Sherlock’s fingers toyed lazily with John’s chest hair, occasionally wandering to circle his nipples. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “You’re going to call it off.”

John looked down at Sherlock resting his cheek against his shoulder. A puzzled expression drew down the corners of John’s mouth. “What are you on about?”

“The wedding.”

“Call off my wedding?” John looked puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you love me.”

John sat up, causing Sherlock’s head to slip from his chest. “I’m not going to call it off.”

“But you love me!”

John looked down sadly at Sherlock’s face, still flushed from sex, hair wild and damp with sweat. “I do. But that doesn’t change my plans with Mary.”

Sherlock sat up and faced John squarely. “Why not? What do you need with her now? You’ve got me. This. Us.” He gestured between them.

Shoulders slumped, John looked up at the ceiling. Anything to avoid Sherlock’s hurt expression. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is!” Sherlock was beginning to get angry. “Go home, tell her the wedding’s off, come back. Simple.”

John’s mouth twisted. The turned his face toward Sherlock but didn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t do that to Mary.”

“But you can do it to me! You can get up and go back to her. And leave me here with the smell of your sex on my sheets.” Sherlock didn’t try to hide the hurt and anger behind his words.

“Sherlock, Mary was... She helped me. She was there when you didn’t trust me enough to include me in your plans. Or think enough of me to tell me that you weren’t dead!”

“I told you! I told you, it was a trick, just a magic trick! I told you but you didn’t understand!”

John turned his back on Sherlock. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Sherlock rose to an elbow; the white sheet that had covered them slipped to his hip.

“Well good on you, Sherlock. You gave me a riddle then jumped off a building right in front of me. And it’s somehow my fault that I didn’t puzzle it out.”

Sherlock swallowed and looked away.

John retrieved his clothing from the floor. He dressed with jerky, angry motions. “So no, Sherlock, I won’t be calling off the wedding. This never happened. Got it?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to John’s at the words. Hurt replaced anger in them. “No. I won’t forget this, John. You can try, but you won’t either.” Sherlock sat up all the way. The sheet pooled around his hips. “You’ll be back. You love me.”

John finished tucking his shirt into his jeans. “No,” he said, giving Sherlock a frown. “I won’t, Sherlock. Forget this happened.”

John was giving him an unspoken ultimatum: 'forget this or lose my friendship.' Sherlock watched John buckle his belt in short, jerky motions, then sit on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes. John bent to tie the shoes; even the curve of his back radiated anger.

Sherlock set his mouth in a resolute line as John sat upright. “Alright, John. It never happened.”

John turned to face Sherlock. His expression was fixed, hard. “Okay then.”

“Friends?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John stood and nodded down at Sherlock. “Of course.” He strode toward the door and paused with his hand on the knob. He kept his eyes on the door. “Sherlock, Mary’s expecting another day of wedding planning here, tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Sherlock echoed.

John glanced at him in the dim lamplight. Each saw the other’s pain, but neither acknowledged it.

“I’ll see you then.”

Sherlock settled back into the pillows. He drew the sheet up to his shoulders while John silently watched. “Goodnight, John. Can you turn out the lights on your way out?” His casual tone held no trace of the tumult he held inside.


	2. Heartache Number Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will not go down without a fight. He's planning John's wedding while also planning on how to win John for himself.

_And heartache number two was when you come back again  
You came back but never meant to stay_

 

 

“I brought sandwiches!” Mary called merrily as she shucked her coat and draped it over the sofa. “Figgered you wouldn’t think of lunch.”

Sherlock stared out the window, violin and bow held loosely at his sides. Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed John and Mary approach or even heard them on the stairs. He turned and laid the instrument and bow in their case and closed it carefully, letting his hands linger on the clasps. He straightened his spine, bracing himself before facing his best friend and his fiancee. His best friend, who, nine hours before, he’d sucked off and begged to cancel his wedding. Sherlock flushed at the memory.

He adopted his usual neutral expression and crossed the room to kiss Mary’s cheek and take the picnic basket from her hands. “This needs to be refrigerated, I assume.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, there’s ham and cheese subs and pimento spread on white, with crusts on like you like it.”

Sherlock glanced at John as he passed his chair. John had picked up a newspaper and pretended to be engrossed. After moving some specimens around, Sherlock unpacked the basket into the fridge then left the empty basket on the kitchen table. When he came back to the living room, Mary was sorting fabric swatches into piles at the desk.

“I thought we could settle on the bridesmaid dresses today. And the flowers, depending on how it goes with the dresses.” Mary sounded as casual and friendly as she’d ever been.

And John still hadn’t said a word, or even glanced in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock took the other desk chair, facing away from John, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Mary had a stack of bridal magazines, each with several pages tagged with Post-It notes. He pored over the marked pictures of bridesmaid dresses with her, discussing the merits and demerits of each. Sherlock asked innumerable questions about the bridesmaids: their heights, weights, color of their skin and hair, bust-waist-hip measurements, the ratio of their arms to their torsos, until Mary laughed and pulled out her phone. She pulled up photographs of three young women. Two of them looked utterly forgettable to Sherlock and the third, whom Mary identified as the maid of honor, Sherock considered to be aesthetically pleasing. He suggested to Mary that the other two bridesmaids wear a different style of dress from the maid of honor. Mary liked the idea because it would give her the option to pick both of her favorite dresses.

Sherlock did not realize how much time passed until he heard John rise from his chair and go into the kitchen. Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock saw John bending to examine the contents of the fridge. “There’s beer in the door, or bottled water if you’d rather,” he called out.

John straightened and gave Sherlock a startled look. They exchanged a long glance before John turned away and grabbed a water bottle. He slammed the fridge door - hard - and stalked back to his chair.

Mary gave John a sharp glance then rolled her eyes at Sherlock, exasperated. “It wouldn’t hurt you to offer to get me and Sherlock a drink, John. Since we’re doing all the work while you read the papers.” She gave Sherlock a half-smile. “You kept him out too late last night, Sherlock. You know how grumpy he is when he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Sherlock shot Mary a sharp glance. He relaxed when he saw her easy smile and amused twinkle in her eyes. He hummed in response and picked up the stack of fabric swatches, fanning them out in his hands then laying them on the desk in between them.

“Based on the skin tone and hair color of your bridesmaids, I suggest sticking to a color in the purple or violet range.” Sherlock slid a few fabric samples from the fan. “This is nice.” The deep aubergine color echoed his favorite shirt.

“Too dark for a May wedding, Sherlock. How about this?” Mary picked out a sample in a medium lilac color. She held it up and turned toward John. “What do you think? For the bridesmaid dresses.”

John glanced at the fabric sample and then Mary’s face. His expression lightened just a fraction. “It’s fine, Mary. Whatever you want.”

Mary turned back to Sherlock with an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, you’d think he wasn’t even getting married, for all the attention he pays to the planning.” Sherlock blanched. When it was clear to him that Mary had made a general observation, not a reference to the conversation he’d had with John the night before, he relaxed again.

Sherlock’s phone chimed while they were eating the sandwiches and apple slices that Mary had plated up. He took it out of his trouser pocket, glanced at it, then repocketed it. John glanced at him. “Lestrade,” Sherlock murmured, sounding bored.

“Anything interesting?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed again, neither confirming John’s question nor denying it. John glanced from him to Mary, then returned to his newspaper. Sherlock’s phone chimed again. He ignored it.

Then again.

And again.

“Oh for god’s sake, Sherlock, get your phone. If Lestrade needs you, we can do this later,” Mary grumbled around a bite of sandwich.

On the fifth chime, Sherlock put down his pimento cheese sandwich and pulled out his phone. He typed out a response and quickly hit SEND. Mary gathered up the magazines and fabric samples. “Guess I’d better go. John, try not to be too late. I’m still tired from trying to wait up for you last night.” Mary sounded amused and not at all put out to cut their wedding planning session short.

“You want me to stay?” John rose when Mary did, sounding irritated that Mary presumed he’d stay behind when she left.

Mary crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek. “Of course, go on with Sherlock. I’ll take the car. You can get a cab home when you’re done.”

John glanced at Sherlock then returned her affection, kissing her cheek. They walked to the doorway together. “I’ll just see her down,” John said. His eyes still didn’t meet Sherlock’s.

“Bye then, Sherlock,” Mary said brightly. “Don’t work too hard.”

Sherlock waved dismissively over his shoulder.

John returned after a moment, scowling, to find Sherlock texting furiously. “So, a new case?” John rubbed his hands together in front of his waist.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Mycroft being annoying.”

Confused, John stuttered,“ But, Lestrade …”

Sherlock threw his mobile onto the table beside his hair and sprang up like a panther. He crowded into John’s personal space and glared down at him. “You’ve been ignoring me all day. Last night you said we were still friends, but today you won’t even look at me. While I plan your wedding with your future wife.” He spat out the last word like it was bitter in his mouth. “You don’t get to do this, John.”

John took a step backwards and held up his hands, palms toward Sherlock. “I’m not …”

Sherlock cut him off. “You are. Ignoring me.” And with that, Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders and pulled him roughly forward then wound his arms tightly John’s back. He crushed their lips together with bruising force, working John’s lips apart fiercely.

John pushed impotently against Sherlock’s chest but Sherlock’s arms were like bands of steel. Sherlock forced his head back until he could barely breathe; his mouth continued to work John’s lips apart until at last John opened his mouth to gasp for air, but Sherlock’s tongue filled his mouth, frantically exploring all the crannies and smooth spaces. “Sherlock,” John managed to gasp.

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes mere inches from John’s. “You can’t ignore that, John.You want it. As badly as I do.” His lips captured John’s again, this time gently, caressing and sucking John’s lips. And after a moment, John relaxed into the embrace, returning Sherlock’s kiss, opening his mouth and inviting more. Sherlock’s hands traveled upward to cup John’s head, thumbs stroking over John’s cheeks gently.

“Say it,” Sherlock breathed into the kiss.

“Oh, god, yes.”

 

They were flushed and sweaty, side by side in Sherlock’s bed, the sheets tangled around their hips. What had started as after-sex tenderness had devolved into quiet arguing when Sherlock once again announced with certainty that John would cancel the wedding.

John angrily pulled on his clothes and fled to the living room; Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown and followed.

“I can’t, Sherlock. You don’t understand.” Pain cracked John’s voice. “I’m an officer. And a doctor. There are certain expectations. I can’t just…” John paused and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I’m Catholic, Sherlock. The nuns at school were ... the priest...” John sat heavily in his chair, eyes closed, and took a shaky breath.

“You’re ashamed. Of this.” Sherlock pointed at John them himself.

John let out the deep breath he’d been holding. “Not ashamed. It’s just. People expect a certain thing of me. The army. Gay soldiers can serve now, but there’s still a bias. People talk. And people expect their doctor to be... to fit a mold.” John swallowed, licked his lips. “My family, Sherlock. They’re not like yours. My dad hasn’t spoken to my sister in fifteen years. She’s not welcome at family weddings. Even funerals. There’s no one in the family but me who talks to her. And when I stand up for her, I’m shouted down.”

“You really still care what people think. After the press crucified me - us. You still care.” Sherlock sounded astounded.

John shook his head, eyes tightly closed. “I can’t just... People want certain things of me. I can’t change that now, Sherlock. I’m thirty eight years old. It’s too late. I guess I’m… just a coward.”

“You invaded Afghanistan. You were wounded in action. Decorated for bravery. You’re no coward, John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft.

John turned his body fully toward Sherlock. “Lacking integrity, then, not courage. I don’t have the moral courage to live out what I feel. What I am.” John dropped his eyes and his voice. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, assessing John. “You want the perfect image, the wife, the house in the suburbs, white picket fence. But your heart’s not in it, John. You would rather wither and die than disturb what other people think of you.” He turned away from John, flouncing his dressing gown, then dropped into his chair with bare knees pulled to his chin. He stared ahead, not looking at John as he continued, “You care more about what people who you barely care about think than me.”

“It’s not like that, Sherlock. It’s also Mary. I love you but I love her too. It’s tearing me apart, to love you both.”

Sherlock turned his head and regarded John coolly. “And what do you think it’s doing to me? I’ve developed a fondness for Mary I rarely feel for anyone. I don’t want to see her hurt.” He dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, looking up at John. “But I will not live my life to accommodate her, nor the public. It doesn’t bother me who knows about us.”

“That’s the difference in us, Sherlock.” John sounded defeated but he held Sherlock’s gaze. “You are so fully _you_ that you don’t have to care. Your family accepts you. You’ve never cared a whit what anyone thinks.” John’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t have that.”

Sherlock’s face flushed, clearly angry. “What does that matter!”

John looked back up, anguish stark in the lines of his face. “It shouldn't. But it does, Sherlock. To me. It matters.”

Sherlock held John’s gaze, his mouth set in a bitter line. Finally, he dropped his eyes to the floor.

John sighed and sank into his chair. He held his face in one hand, rubbing his temples as if he had a sudden headache. He sighed again and picked up a newspaper.

Silence stretched between them.


	3. A Love That I Can’t Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John come to a tentative peace about their relationship.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win._

_~Heartaches by the Number_ by Harlan Howard.

 

They’d been chased over rooftops by a little man with a poisoned dart and his sidekick. a gant, who now lay dead in an alley at the base of one of the buildings while the little person had been cuffed and stuffed into the back of a police cruiser. John gave Lestrade details for his report while Sherlock leaned against Lestrade’s car and smoked. Sherlock had been awake over thirty hours, since John had shared the pictures of pearls he’d received via email. He’d worked tirelessly to find the sender, a known jewel thief, because Sherlock was convinced that John was targeted by the same person - or people - who had drugged him and put him in a bonfire.

John wrapped it up with the Met and put a hand on Sherlock’s back to guide him to the corner. Luckily a cab pulled up just as they stepped up and John bundled Sherlock into the back. He’d intended to send Sherlock home in a cab then take the Tube to the suburbs, but when he saw how Sherlock laid his head on the back of the cab seat -something he never did, no matter how tired - John decided to see him back to Baker Street.

They hadn’t touched in two weeks. An uneasy peace had stretched between them and, being who they were, they didn’t talk about it. Sherlock continued to obsess over wedding details, conferring with Mary as if he were the maid of honor and not the best man. John continued to agree with any decision they made about the wedding because really, he didn’t have strong feelings one way or the other about any of it. But today, Sherlock scooted close to John and laid his head on John’s shoulder. John glanced sharply at the cab driver, but he was intent on the traffic and paid them no mind. Within minutes, Sherlock’s breathing evened out and more of his weight slumped against John.

John glanced at the cabbie again and saw that his eyes were still on the road ahead, so he turned his head and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair. Whatever product Sherlock had used almost three full days ago to keep his curls in check smelled heavenly, and underneath the earthy, warm scent of Sherlock’s body smelled even better.

With another glance at the cabbie (still not paying any attention to his passengers), John took Sherlock’s hand in his. Reflexively, Sherlock’s fingers curled around his.

After a brief debate with himself, and against his better judgement, John pulled out his mobile with his free hand and typed out a text to Mary one-thumbed to tell her he would be staying at Baker Street another night and he’d see her in the morning. He told himself he’d sleep in his old room, that he was just making sure Sherlock got home safe and then he might as well stay since it was late and he was tired. He didn’t believe a word of his own self talk.

Sherlock revived a little when John shook his shoulder as they pulled up to Baker Street. He sleepwalked to the door and stood docilely while John paid the cab fare then unlocked the front door. Automatically, Sherlock climbed the stairs and headed toward his chair.

“Uh, no, Sherlock. Straight to bed with you.”

Sherlock mumbled a feeble attempt at resistance.

Again telling himself that he was just settling Sherlock in, John guided him through the kitchen and down the hall with a hand on Sherlock’s lower back. When they reached the bedroom, John eased the suit jacket off Sherlock’s shoulders and unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt with a clinical air. Next off were his trousers and socks, then John turned back the bedding so Sherlock could slip in. Sherlock settled in the center of the bed, on his side facing away from John, and tucked the covers to his chin.

John vacillated in the doorway. He could go upstairs or he could sleep on the sofa. Even as his conscious mind thought those options, John’s hands worked the top two buttons of his shirt open and jerked it over his head. Finally giving in to himself, John stripped his jeans and socks and slid into bed behind Sherlock. He barely had time to spoon Sherlock close before sleep overtook him.

 

John woke alone in Sherlock’s bed. He groaned and turned his face into the pillows, seeking Sherlock’s scent. What had he been thinking? Just a whiff of Sherlock’s smell and John was half-hard in his boxers. He thought to himself that this had been a monumentally bad idea.

His old dressing gown, the one he’d never liked and so left behind in the upstairs bedroom, was laid on the foot of the bed. John slipped it on went through the glass door to the loo. He decided while pissing that if he took a shower, he could delay the awkward meeting with Sherlock a little longer. He used the toothbrush he still kept in the medicine cabinet over the sink then took a long, hot shower.

Sherlock was curled up asleep in John’s old red armchair, wrapped in the tatty blanket they usually kept on the back of sofa, when John finally emerged from the bathroom. John crouched before him and just looked for a few minutes. Sherlock’s hair was damp, so he’d had a shower, but still unstyled, rather poofy and frizzy like it got without styling product. Sherlock’s face was pale, and there were lines John hadn’t noticed before. He was thinner, but more heavily muscled, since he came back from wherever it was he’d been to take out Moriarty's network. They’d never talked about it. When John tried to ask, Sherlock shut down and changed the subject. John now knew there were scars mapping Sherlock’s back, and he knew they hadn’t been there two years ago when Sherlock faked his suicide, but Sherlock had not said a word about them. John wanted to know. He wanted to know it all but had stopped asking when he saw how uncomfortable his questions made his best friend.

First John ran his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, then, when Sherlock didn’t rouse, he stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his fingertips. Sherlock hadn’t shaved and the dark stubble scratched against the pads of John’s fingers. Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled slightly.

“Good morning.” John was glad he’d brushed his teeth. The only ablution he hadn’t performed was shaving, since he didn’t have a razor in the Baker Street bathroom. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Sherlock smiled again and replied, voice like gravel, “I came out here to think.”

John knew he should draw back, make an inane comment about coffee and toast, return to the bathroom and put his dirty clothes back on. Any of these actions would have been the sane thing to do. But Sherlock looked so soft, his expression was so open, that John instead leaned in and kissed him softly. He withdrew after only a few seconds and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s with his eyes tightly closed.

“I wish I could be the type of person you want me to be.” John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. His forehead rolled against John’s. “No. You who you are. And I love you.”

John’s eyes were still closed. He drew a ragged breath. “I wish…”

Sherlock cut him off with a quiet “No.”

John opened his eyes in surprise when Sherlock stroked his cheek and wiped away the wetness there. Sherlock pushed his hands into John’s armpits and hauled him up into his lap and pressed John’s head against his shoulder. John squirmed a bit to get comfortable. He draped his legs over the arm of the chair and burrowed his face into the side of Sherlock’s neck. A small half-sigh, half-sob escaped his throat. Sherlock adjusted the afghan to cover them both.

They sat thus until long past the time Sherlock's legs went to sleep from John’s weight on his thighs and long past the time John realized he had a crick in his neck, silent and sad together. John finally opened his eyes and noted the late-morning sunlight spilling through the window. He sighed in regret and lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“I have an afternoon shift today. I have to go home and change.” John stood and pressed his fists into his lower back. He stretched, cracking his neck on both sides.

Sherlock sat forward, rubbing both hands along his thighs to try to tame the pins-and-needles in them. “You could always leave clothes here.”

John dropped his hands to his sides and stared levelly at Sherlock, who met his gaze. A wordless understanding passed between them. John understood what was on offer and accepted it with a small nod. “Yeah, good idea.”

Sherlock returned the smile. He stood and folded the afghan while John returned to the bathroom and dressed. He crossed the room to give John a kiss on the cheek when he headed out the door.


	4. Troubles by the score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has some ideas to subtly put his stamp on John and Mary’s big day. Stamps like only Sherlock Holmes could pull off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to UrbanHymnal for ideas of ways Sherlock could mess with the wedding plans!

_Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score_   
_Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more_   
_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win_   
_But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end._

 

It was early on a sunny afternoon. Mary and Sherlock stood in the middle of a bright, empty reception hall. The walls were painted a garish yellow with murals of vines and birds meandering along their length. Sherlock spun around to take it all in, coattail swirling, then stopped facing Mary and assessed her in the context of the surroundings. She looked washed out - yellow really wasn’t her color. The harsh afternoon light streaming through the overabundant French doors highlighted every line in Mary’s face, betraying her age. He closed his eyes and mentally placed John in the hall. Yellow would complement John's coloring and bring out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

He grinned his ‘it’s Christmas’ grin. “This is perfect, Mary. It suits you.”

Mary brightened. She’d been dropping, exhausted after the morning of Sherlock running her around to two other reception venues. ‘Lunch’ had been stops at two different caterers to taste their offerings. John had been called into work to cover for another doctor who called in sick, but he’d insisted that Mary and Sherlock keep all the appointments they’d scheduled for the day. And since he just went along with anything they suggested about the wedding, Mary had agreed. Mary had a headache from tasting six different wines and four different champagnes along with the food. Sherlock, on the other hand, had exuded a nearly manic energy all day. They had other stops scheduled to round out the day but Mary decided if Sherlock said this room suited her, it was good enough for her.

She smiled. “Let’s book it then. I don’t need to see the others. This one’s perfect.”

Sherlock’s grin widened.

~*~

A cigarette burned between Sherlock’s fingers as he shuffled through the wedding files on his desk. He took a long drag when he found what he was looking for - the file on the dresses. He pulled out the order for the bridesmaid dresses, then pulled up the dress manufacturer’s website. He quickly found the pages that showed the color options for the dress styles and clicked through each before he found what he was looking for: hues of lilac and lavender that didn’t quite clash, but also didn’t quite go together.

He grinned in satisfaction. One quick phone call should do the trick. He stubbed out the cigarette with one hand while he dialed with the other.

“Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes, calling for Mary Morstan. Yes, quite well, thank you. I’m afraid Miss Morstan has had a change of heart. Is it too late to make changes to the bridesmaid dresses?”

The sardonic grin widened when Sherlock heard that it was still possible to make modifications.

“Excellent. Miss Morstan has decided to go with a two-color scheme. She’s decided to change the maid of honor dress to “lilac blossom.” Yes, I know it’s only one shade difference, but you know how much little things matter to a bride for her big day.” Sherlock stifled a laugh with his hand over his mouth. “Yes, good. And for the bridesmaids, she’s decided on “lavender dream.” Yes, she’s quite sure they will compliment each other.”

Sherlock paused while the dress shop representative suggested changing the bows on the bridesmaid dresses to “lilac blossom” to tie the two colors together. He closed his eyes and imagined the awful combination. “Perfect. That’s an excellent suggestion. I’m sure Miss Morstan will agree. And while we’re at it, let’s add another foot of fabric to those bows, just to make them a statement piece.”

~*~

The catering manager picked up on the first ring. “Hello, this is Stephen’s Fine Catering. Jason speaking.”

“Hello, Jason, this is Sherlock Holmes calling for Mary Morstan. I’m afraid we have to make some changes in the selections for the Morstan-Watson wedding. You haven’t placed orders for supplies yet, have you?”

“No, it’s still early for that. Hold on, let me pull up your event.”

Sherlock tapped his index finger against his front teeth while he waited.

“Here you go, I’ve got it now. What changes will you need?”

“I’m afraid Miss Morstan went a little over budget in her selections. She wonders if you could perhaps cut back a little on the prime rib’s grade. Something still flavorful, but perhaps a bit more budget friendly.” Sherlock heard keys clicking over the mobile connection.

“Yes, I can downgrade the prime rib. Right now you’ve selected Aberdeen Angus. We can save you a little money by ordering a Welsh Beef instead. It’s not as tender, but still nicely marbled. If we cook it rare, it should be fine.”

Sherlock paused to consider. “Yes, that’s fine. But the groom prefers more well done beef. Medium, at the least, even tending to medium well.”

“I’m afraid it might be a little on the tough side to cook a Welsh Beef prime rib medium well.”

“Needs must. I’m afraid Aberdeen Angus is just out of the budget. I’m sure the Welsh Beef will be fine, even medium well.” More keys clicked in the background. Sherlock waited. “And the wine. I’m afraid the bride was a little exuberant picking that, too. Now that she’s reviewed the wedding budget, it seems a stretch.”

“If you’ll remember, Mr. Holmes, I tried to steer her toward red with the beef. But she complained that she doesn’t like red wine. The riesling really is the best white to pair with prime rib.” The catering manager sounded close to the end of his rope.

“Yes, I agree Jason. But you know how brides can be about their dream wedding. Miss Morstan still insists on riesling, but we will have to pick a less expensive brand. Can you help with that?”

Jason rattled off brands and prices while Sherlock took notes.

“Excellent, thank you so much Jason. I’ll pick up a few bottles today and have Miss Morstan try them. I’ll call you tomorrow with her final selection. Now, the champagne for the toast. We’d chosen a brut but I’m afraid Miss Morstan now would like to change to a sweet variety. Yes, I know, it won’t be as pleasing to the discerning palate. Yes, but you know how brides get. ” Sherlock had to stifle another laugh with his hand.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, we do offer a few budget sparking wines. I’d suggest the La Spinetta if Miss Morstan wants sweet. It’s as sweet as they come.”

“Excellent. Put us down for double portions of the La Spinetta. Now, about the bread. We’d chosen whole grain baguette. Could we save a little by switching to traditional white dinner rolls?”

Jason sighed. “Well, you could, Mr. Holmes, but with the other changes, perhaps our top of the line bread could make up for some of the other quality shortcuts.”

“I assure you, Jason, I have faith that your chefs will turn out a top quality meal even with these changes. White dinner rolls will have to do.”

“Alright, I’ll just email the confirmation to Miss Morstan and we’ll be all set.”

Sherlock opened a new tab on his laptop quickly. “Oh, she’s changed her email address. Set up one specifically for the wedding plans, so she doesn’t miss anything important in her inbox.” He created new gmail account while he spoke. “Here you go, it’s MaryMPerfectWedding@gmail.com. You can email the confirmation to that address. I’ll make sure she responds promptly.”

“Okay Mr. Holmes. And make sure she gets back to me about the wine. I’ll have to place that order soon.”

Sherlock smiled darkly. “Oh, she will get back to you right away.”

~*~

Five bottles of cheap white wine sat in a line on the kitchen table. Sherlock knew he couldn’t do something as gross as order Gallo or Blue Nun or Mary would be sure to notice. He needed to pick a wine that was awful without being too obviously cheap.

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been up for a while so all the glasses were in the sink, dirty. He washed one quickly, dried it, then sat down at the table. He’d been careful to pick corked varieties. Even in the excitement of her wedding reception, Mary would surely notice if the waiters were pouring wine from screw-top bottles.

The first wasn’t too bad, even to Sherlock's discerning taste buds. He recorked it and sat it aside. The next two were bland and overly sweet. The fourth was ghastly and he placed it upside down in the sink, knowing it was too much off the wine Mary had picked for his scheme to work. The fifth was perfect. Just what he was looking for: oversweet without being sickening, slightly flat with a hint of a harsh ending. He picked up the bottle and examined the label. It was innocuous enough that Mary would never notice it wasn’t the label she’d picked, especially in the bustle and excitement of her wedding reception.

Sherlock picked up his phone and logged into “Mary’s” new email account. He typed out an email confirming the changes Jason had sent earlier and changing the wine selection to Washington Hills Riesling.

 

~*~

John had fallen asleep on the sofa while Mary and Sherlock sat hunched over the guest list at the desk.

“Why do you need to know so much information about each guest?” Mary sounded tired.

“I want to ensure we select the perfect combination of guests at each table to give each an enjoyable evening. Since I don’t know many of these people, I can’t deduce who would enjoy whom. So, tell me more about Beatrice Smyth-Hobbs.”

Mary sighed and rattled off facts about her coworker Beatrice. The line of questioning continued for over an hour with Mary describing guests and Sherlock transcribing onto his laptop at lightening speed.

“Sherlock, I’m exhausted. You know everyone else on the list. Can we please just order dinner now? John, wake up!” Mary called the last phrase over her shoulder. John stirred. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I swear, Sherlock, you wear my future husband out.” Sherlock glanced at Mary sharply. She grinned. “You two and your late nights!”

John stood. “You can’t blame it all on Sherlock. Takes two, you know.”

Sherlock looked from one to the other. Did either of them intend the double entendre? John did, he was sure. Did Mary even know her words carried a double meaning? Her bright smile and clear gaze told him no, she did not.

“Alright, I believe I have all the information I need. I will draw up the seating plan later.” Sherlock gave Mary one of his fake-bright smiles.

John was already on the phone with the corner Chinese takeout before Sherlock had even stopped speaking. Sherlock and Mary tidied the wedding files while they waited for dinner to be delivered. John went downstairs when the bell rang while Mary retrieved plates from the kitchen.

“Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you,” Sherlock began while they ate. “The dress shop called. It seems the bridesmaids’ dresses are out of stock in your color choice. I went over the available options and picked a darker shade of lilac for the maid of honor and a lavender for the bridesmaids.” The blatant lie rolled off Sherlock’s tongue effortlessly. “I knew you wouldn't mind if I chose. They needed an answer right away to ensure the dresses arrive on time.”

Mary looked rather flummoxed. “Well, I guess, if they needed an answer right away.”

With another slick grin, Sherlock nodded. “I also told them to make the bow on the bridesmaid dresses the same lilac as the maid of honor’s dress. It will should all tie together nicely.”

“Uh, okay. If you think that works,” Mary conceded.

“Excellent.”

 

Later that night, Sherlock studied the notes he'd taken earlier. He drew diagrams on a yellow legal pad, crossing out names and adding others until he was satisfied.

“There’” he murmured to himself in the quiet of his flat, “The perfect combination at each table to ensure no one can relax and have a good time.”

He sat back clicked the laptop closed with a bitter smile.

~*~

Sherlock exited a cab in front of a florist shop. Mary was already waiting outside. He kissed her cheek in greeting then held the door for her to enter while he drew out a typed sheet from his breast pocket.

“Here you go, I thoroughly researched flower language and the meanings behind flowers commonly used in wedding arrangements. I think you’ll find my suggestions acceptable.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you’ve outdone yourself. I just want to pick something that is pretty.” Mary smiled and wrinkled her nose at him.

“Really, Mary, that’s rather plebeian. The language of flowers has evolved for centuries and is especially meaningful in the context of weddings. And funerals. But we’re here to talk about your wedding.” Sherlock smiled.

A florist approached them and showed them to a desk. He introduced himself as Harold and fetched a thick notebook of sample pictures. Within minutes, Harold and Sherlock were immersed in discussion of the merits and drawbacks of each flower on Sherlock’s list. Bored, Mary scrolled her phone and barely listened.

After an hour, Harold presented the typed up order for Mary’s approval. “White roses for purity, cornflowers for fidelity, Sweet William for masculinity and gallantry. Calla lilies for fertility - those are very popular in weddings these days. And green carnations for…”

“Yes, whatever.” Mary cut him off. “It’s fine. If Sherlock likes it, it’s fine with me.”

Harold glanced at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. Sherlock winked and gave him a half-smile.

“Alright, Miss Morstan. I guess that settles it.”

Mary nodded and picked up her purse. “I need to run. See you later, Sherlock. And thanks for your help, Harold.” She rose and exited the shop before Sherlock and Harold could even get to their feet.

“I need her signature on the final order,” Harold said, dismayed.

Sherlock smiled at him reassuringly. “It’s fine, give it here. I can sign.”

“You really think she’s okay with the green carnations?”

Sherlock smiled broadly. “I think she’s going to love it all.”

~*~

Another call to a dress shop. This time, to the shop making Mary’s wedding gown.

“Hello, Sherlock Holmes calling for Mary Morstan. Yes, everything’s fine. I just need to let you know that Miss Morstan has decided on different shoes for the wedding. Yes, I know she’s already had the final fitting, but she’s changed her mind. Her new bridal shoes are two inches taller than the ones she wore for the fitting.”

Sherlock barely listened to the shop rep natter on with objections.

“Yes, you are right, but you know how brides get when the wedding day’s drawing near. Can you please add two inches to the skirt of her wedding gown? Yes, I’m quite sure, the heels of the new shoes are two inches taller.” Getting impatient, Sherlock called up his most imperious public school accent. “No, you don’t have to schedule another final fitting. Just add two inches and everyone will be happy. Miss Morstan does not want to be bothered with another fitting.”

 

After the shop rep finally agreed, Sherlock jabbed the OFF button with relish. Time for another call, this one to a dress shop already in his contacts.

“Hello, Sherlock Holmes calling for Mary Morstan. I’m calling about the maid of honor dress for the Morstan-Watson wedding.” Sherlock listened while the shop rep clucked about final fittings, just as on his last call.

“I know the bridesmaids have had their final fittings. Try telling that to Miss Morstan! She has insisted the maid of honor change shoe styles. I’m afraid the new shoes are two inches taller than the ones she wore for the fittings.” Sherlock smiled again while the shop rep went through the same list of complaints as on the last call.

“Right. Yes, I know. No, that will not be necessary. Just add two inches to the length of the dress. No, I told you it won’t be necessary. There’s not time for another final fitting. Just hem the dress and it will be fine.” Just as before, Sherlock’s impatient posh tones settled the argument and the shop rep agreed to make the change.

His bitter grin was even more sardonic as he pressed OFF.


	5. I waited but you must have lost your way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the stag night. Sherlock confesses his aborted plans for the stag night to John. John acts on Sherlock's plans with a great emotional impact afterwards.

_With hopeful heart I waited for your knock on the door_  
_I waited but you must have lost your way._

 

“Wakey wakey!”

John peered at the door of the brightly lit cell and tried to suppress the urge to throw up. It took a lot of willpower. “Greg. Is that Greg?”

“Get up.” Greg regarded John with a mixture of delight and contempt. “I’m going to put you two in a taxi. Managed to square things with the desk sergeant.”

John pushed himself up to his feet. The effort made his urge to throw up stronger. He looked over at Sherlock, still sleeping on the cell’s hard bench.

“What a couple of lightweights! You couldn’t even make it to closing time!” Greg intentionally pitched his voice so it would echo around the tiled cell.

John held up a hand. “Can you whisper?” he whispered.

“Not really!” Greg shouted this time, and Sherlock flailed to life, hands flapping in the air in front of him, eyes blinking wide. He pushed himself to standing and followed Greg and John out of the cell on unsteady legs.

When they’d checked out and retrieved their personal property, John tried for levity. “Well, thanks for a … you know. An evening.”

Sherlock groaned. “It was awful.”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “I was going to pretend, but it was. Truly.”

Sherlock groaned again, even louder. “I had plans. I calculated it all so carefully. We were supposed to remain pleasantly inebriated.” He paused and swallowed. “Goddammit. First we both got pissed, then that woman Tessa showed up. Ruined my plans.”

 

Side by side in the back of a cab, Sherlock let his head loll onto John’s shoulder. John glanced at the cab driver. She met his eyes in the rearview mirror and gave him a fond look.

“Come back to my place,” Sherlock murmured. “At least for something to eat before you go home. Mary won’t expect you yet.”

John rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Okay. But only if you promise to eat, too.”

“Can’t.” Sherlock’s head lolled from side to side. “Might vomit.”

John huffed a small laugh. “Eating a little will help keep you from vomiting. Tea and toast. Or Coca Cola - even better for a hangover. Don’t supposed you have any Coke?

“Not that type,” Sherlock drawled. “Or any other type at the moment. In case you were going to get huffy about it.”

John laughed again. “Not today. Might even have tried some for myself if it would help this massive hangover.” John’s eyes roamed back and forth from one to the other of Sherlock’s eyes. “Are you still drunk?”

“A little.” Sherlock turned toward John, curling his body around John’s and fitting his face to the side of John’s head, his mouth near John’s ear. John glanced at the cab driver again. Her eyes were on the road.

“I had plans, John.” Sherlock purred in John’s ear. “Want to hear my plans?”

“Umm. Sure.”

“I was going to let you fuck me. I wanted to give you that for your stag night. I’ve never done that before, and I deduced you’ve never either. Other things, with other men, yes. But never that.” He breathed into John’s ear and nuzzled the side of John’s head with the tip of his nose. “I wanted it to be you, for your stag night. Something no one else has ever done, something you’ve never done. The first.”

John shifted. He pressed his legs together. “Sherlock,” he whispered. The cabbie was still paying close attention to traffic. John checked once more, then slipped his hand under Sherlock’s coat. He squeezed Sherlock’s wrist. “And today?”

Sherlock pressed his lips gently against John’s ear. “Today. Yeah, today.”

John moaned just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Okay. Today,” he breathed.

~*~

“First, showers. Then food. Go on, you get first shower while I make breakfast.” John’s tone brooked no dissent. He went into the kitchen while Sherlock trudged into the bathroom. Of course the teapot and all the plates were dirty. He found bread and popped it into the toaster, started the kettle, and by the time the water boiled, he’d washed the sinkful of dishes. He made more toast and a pot of tea then buttered and spread jam on the toast and cut it diagonally. The water shut off in the bathroom so John arranged the teapot, plate and two mugs on a tray.

Sherlock was just getting into bed. nude, when John entered the bedroom with the tray. “Scoot,” he ordered. Sherlock slid over to the far side of the bed. John set the tray on the nightstand and poured mugs for each of them. He toed off his shoes then handed Sherlock a mug and the plate before climbing onto the bed to sit cross-legged facing Sherlock on top of the covers. They ate and sipped in companionable silence. When his mug was drained, John stood and handed the plate, containing the last half slice of toast, to Sherlock. “Eat this while I go take a shower. And don’t throw it away. I’ll check the bins. Eat it. You’ll feel better.”

Sherlock smiled sheepishly - John knew his tricks well. He rolled his eyes and bit into the toast.

~*~

John took a quick but thorough hot shower. He scrubbed his teeth and gargled mouthwash twice, too, then wiped the steam off the mirror and surveyed his face. He still didn’t have a razor and Barker Street, although he did now have a selection of clothing hanging in Sherlock’s wardrobe and pants and socks in his drawers. John had placed it all upstairs but Sherlock moved it down to his room.

John felt the stubble on his jaw. Sherlock had shaved, but he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would mind John using his razor. He sighed and decided to skip it, then combed his hair carefully. He felt like a teenager going to his first dance; the butterflies in his stomach reminded him of hoping to get off in the backseat with whatever forgettable girl he’d invited to dances in those days. He straightened his spine, wrapped his damp towel around his waist, and turned to the bedroom…

...to find Sherlock asleep, curled toward the far wall. John sighed. Sherlock had mentioned that he still felt a little drunk, so John couldn’t fault him for drifting off. He dropped the towel on the floor beside the bed and climbed in beside Sherlock, spooning close and listening to Sherlock’s even breathing, thinking about the things Sherlock had said in the cab. He pressed his half-hard cock against Sherlock’s luscious arse and kissed between his shoulderblades.

John was rewarded when Sherlock moaned and turned toward him. “Hello gorgeous,” John murmured and kissed Sherlock’s soft, parted lips. Sherlock squirmed forward to close the gap between their bodies. He pressed a knee between John’s legs and rolled his hips forward until John gasped into the kiss.

“Today,” Sherlock whispered. Chest to chest, Sherlock pressed John onto his back. He slung his long leg over both of John’s and undulated until the hardness between them lined up then rutted, hard, while he moaned into John’s ear. “Today. I’m going to give you what no one else ever has. The first girl you fucked wasn’t a virgin, was she?”

John breathed, “No.”

“You’ve never had a virgin before. While I’m certainly no virgin in any other way, I’ve never actually let anyone fuck me, John. You’ll be the first.” He rutted, his erection sliding against John’s, pressing hard.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hips in a hard grip to stop his movements. “Sherlock.” John’s voice was ragged. “This is enough. I’m fine with just. Oh, god, I’m close already.”

Sherlock kissed the side of John’s neck, leaving a wet trail up to his earlobe. He nipped the earlobe while he answered, “It’s not for me, John. Not enough. I want you. Inside me. I want to feel you, moving in me.”

John groaned and dug his fingers harder into Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock smirked into John’s neck. When he had his facial expression back under control, he slid to John’s side then turned away to rummage in the drawer of his bedside table. He fished out a condom and bottle of silicon lube and laid them on the bed beside his hip.

John remained on his back, watching Sherlock’s maneuvers with interest. Sherlock rolled to his side and John shifted to his side to face him. John stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “How do you want to do this?” he whispered.

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “I want to see your face. I want to watch you fucking me.” Sherlock picked up the lube and squeezed a generous amount into his right hand. He reached behind while he leaned in to capture John’s lips once more.

“I can do that,” John murmured into the kiss.

“Give me your hand.”

John slipped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, sliding his hand next to Sherlock's. His index finger stroked the smooth muscle ringing Sherlock's finger to the second knuckle. The area was slick with a light coating of lube. John teased with his fingertip, back and forth in light semicircles, stroking beside Sherlock’s finger as it moved in and out. Sherlock shuddered and moaned into John’s neck. John pushed his finger in beside Sherlock’s and Sherlock quaked from head to toe.

Sherlock moved his face toward John, mouth open. “Kiss me,” he moaned, and John mouth captured his in a messy, wet, open kiss.

“You’ve never done. This?” John rasped.

Sherlock shook his head as much as he could against the pillow.

John pressed in his middle finger alongside his and Sherlock’s index fingers. Sherlock sucked in a breath through his mouth that switched to a moan when John employed his medical knowledge of anatomy, crooking his fingers to massage Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock jerked and gasped.

“Too much?” John asked.

“No, god no,” Sherlock answered eagerly.

John pulled out, bringing Sherlock’s finger with his. He leaned over to retrieve his towel from the floor and wiped his hands then and gently rolled Sherlock onto his back. He knelt between Sherlock’s open legs. Sherlock tore open the condom packet and quickly rolled it on then stroked John with his already-slicked hand. John lifted Sherlock’s legs and pressed them upward then leaned forward, bracing himself on his right arm with hand planted beside Sherlock’s shoulder. He guided himself with his left hand, sliding in with shallow thrusts. Sherlock released his breath in a huff.

“Okay? Does this hurt?” John stopped moving with just his glans buried inside Sherlock.

“No, no. It’s...you’re in me, John. You are inside me.” Sherlock’s eyes shone, dark huge pupils nearly swallowing the pale blue iris.

Remaining still, John smiled fondly down into Sherlock’s face. “Yeah. I’m in you.” The lump in his throat barely shifted enough to let the words pass.

Sherlock flexed his abdominals and pulled himself up to circle John’s torso with his long arms. He clung, breathing hard, his face buried in John’s chest. “In me. You’re in me,” Sherlock breathed into John’s skin like a benediction.

John lowered himself until Sherlock was once again nestled against the bed. He hooked Sherlock’s knees with his elbows and began to move, slowly, in and out in languid strokes. Sherlock continued his chant, mixed with soft moans, clinging to John, kissing and nuzzling John’s chest.

John released Sherlock’s knees. He dropped to his elbows, cradling Sherlock’s head and kissing him deeply. Sherlock locked his legs around John’s waist and met his thrusts, moving his hips with John, thrusting upward to draw John deeper. “Oh god oh god John,” He groaned.

John pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s sternum, hips stuttering as he came. He stilled, panting, and Sherlock straightened his legs, twining theirs together. John made to pull out but Sherlock clung harder. “Don’t. I want to come with you inside me,” Sherlock whispered as he threaded his hand between them.

He jerked quickly, holding his body still to keep John inside. John watched, head still propped on Sherlock’s chest, and murmured encouragement. “Oh fuck Sherlock, yes. God that’s so. Hot, so hot.” Within minutes Sherlock's release pulsed hot and wet between their bodies.

John collapsed beside Sherlock and wrapped him in shaking arms. He pressed kisses into Sherlock’s cheekbones, his brow, his temple. “Sherlock, Sherlock,” he nearly sobbed.

Sherlock opened his eyes and took John’s face into his hands. “John. It’s alright.” He kissed John’s cheek tenderly. “It’s more than alright. It’s brilliant, and fantastic, and marvelous.” He smiled brightly.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s hair, holding him even tighter, trying to control his breathing. He shivered. Sherlock stroked his back in long, soothing motions. At last John calmed and looked Sherlock in the face. “It felt like the first time. Like,” John swallowed and blinked. “Like never before.”

Sherlock traced the curve of John’s jaw, his fingers dragging on John’s stubble. “It was. The first time.” He pressed a soft kiss to John’s lips.

John laid his head against the pillow, giving Sherlock room to breathe. It should be dark, he thought to himself, first times happen in the dark. Instead the morning sunlight filtered around the edges of the drawn curtains and made golden patterns across the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to arianedevere.livejournal.com for The Sign Of Three transcript that helped me greatly with his fic.


	6. Heartache number three was when you called me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives John waltz lessons, but John can't keep his hands off of his Best Man.

“This,” Sherlock motioned toward his chest and left hand with his right, “Is the frame. It’s the support, the space your partner will occupy while you lead her round the floor. Remember, your right hand indicates direction, your left supports your partner’s position. See, thus.”

Sherlock held his right arm out at shoulder height with a slight crook in his elbow. His fingers were slightly curled, palm facing out. His left hand was about a foot in front of his body, elbow bent, palm facing his body. “Keep your body erect, shoulders back. Think ‘Attention,’ that should do it. You don’t want to lean into your partner or hang on her. You are the structure within which she will dance. Now come.”

With a weary sigh, John stepped into Sherlock’s personal space. He raised his left hand and curled it around Sherlock’s right. Sherlock laid his left hand lightly against John’s shoulder blade. “Your partner will lay her right hand lightly against your shoulder.”

John cupped Sherlock’s shoulder with his right hand. “No, not on top. Lightly against the shoulder seam of your jacket.”

John moved his hand to the seam of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “If you were wearing a jacket,” John grumbled. “And what makes you think Mary even knows how to waltz?”

“She does. I asked her. And a good dancer can lead anyone, even a partner who doesn’t know how to dance. I don’t think you have time to develop into a dancer of that level, but I can at least tutor you enough so that you don’t make a fool of yourself.”

“We could just stand on the dance floor and sway back and forth like a couple of teenagers at a school dance.” John’s eyes twinkled.

“Absolutely out of the question. I am composing a waltz for your wedding. You will waltz. You will not sway like spotty teenagers and grope each other on the dance floor to my original composition.”

John’s eyes twinkled again. “ I don’t know, groping each other like teenagers sounds pretty good to me.”

Sherlock huffed and opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by the door to the flat swinging open and Mrs. Hudson breezing in. She lifted a hand to her heart and exclaimed, “Oh, isn’t this lovely! Teaching John to dance. Oh, won’t Mary be so pleased!”

Sherlock dropped his arms. John took a step away.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, I think she’ll be pleased.” John crossed the room to take the plate Mrs. Hudson was carrying. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Sherlock told me you’d be by today, so I made the orange walnut bread you always liked.”

John took a slice of spongy bread and bit deeply. “Delicious. You outdid yourself this time, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’ll leave you two to it then. Have a nice lesson.” Mrs. Hudson closed the door on her way out.

John sat the plate down, thn turned the lock on the doorknob and went to the windows and drew the curtains. He returned to stand in front of Sherlock and lifted his arms into position. “Afraid someone will see us dancing?” Sherlock tried to ask lightly but his voice caught on the last word.

John shook his head. “No. Not dancing.” He laid his hands gently on Sherlock’s cheeks and drew him down for a kiss. Sherlock relaxed into the embrace and returned the kiss, then remembered the dance lesson. He straightened and resumed his waltz pose and lecture.

“Waltz music is written in triple meter. Three four time, count of one-two-three. You lead with your left foot on one. Like so. Follow me.” Sherlock stepped to his left and John followed. “On the balls of your feet, John. Lightly. But not so much that you tiptoe. Good, that’s good. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Good.”

John halted Sherlock’s motion. Slowly, he slid his hands down Sherlock’s sides and around his hips, drawing him firmly against John’s body. “God, Sherlock. Feel what you do to me.” John rolled his hips, pressing one knee between Sherlock’s. They kissed, open mouthed and messy, until John slipped the dressing gown from Sherlock’s shoulders and threw it onto the sofa. He pulled the hem of Sherlock’s tee shirt, drawing it over Sherlock’s head and tossing it with the dressing gown. “I want you to dance for me,” John murmured, his mouth an inch from Sherlock’s.

Sherlock closed the gap, nipping at John’s lower lip, then squared his shoulders. “We’re dancing. Come on.”

John slipped his hands into Sherlock’s loose fitting pyjama bottoms. He eased them down over Sherlock’s hips and let them fall to the floor. ““I want to watch you dance,” he whispered. ”Dance for me.” He stepped back and sat down on the sofa.

Sherlock’s gaze locked with John’s for a long moment, then one side of his mouth tilted into a closed-lipped grin. He turned to the desk and touched his phone where it was docked in his sound system. Strains of a violin solo filled the living room. Nude, Sherlock slowly raised his arms to waltz pose, squared his shoulders, and began to waltz in time to the music. He circled the living room slowly, lean muscles moving under pale skin, graceful and lithe. He gave John a smoldering look over his bare shoulder then dropped his lids nearly all the way to dance with a faraway look on his face. The afternoon light caught highlights of chestnut in his mahogany curls as he turned, first presenting his scarred back to John, then his flawless front.

John unbuckled his belt and opened his flies. He slowly stroked the erection he’d freed. “God you’re gorgeous. Like a gazelle.”

Sherlock smiled and continued to waltz. He rose and fell gracefully, light on his feet and confident in his dancing skill. He made three more graceful circuits of the living room before the music ended. As the last note died away, he turned and walked slowly toward the sofa, stopping between John’s knees. John leaned forward, placed his hands on Sherlock’s waist and pulled Sherlock into his lap. Sherlock’s knees slipped into place to bracket John’s hips as he sat back onto John’s thighs. John’s erection jutted obscenely between them.

John’s thumbs rubbed small circles on Sherlock’s hip bones. “Beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful. You dance beautifully. Just like every other goddamned amazing thing you do,” John whispered into the skin of Sherlock’s neck. He reached between them, stroking Sherlock to full staff, then pulled him forward by the hips. Finally aligned, John grasped both erections in his hand and stroked slowly.

Sherlock leaned to his right and fumbled with his dressing gown. He drew his hand back with a single-use packet of lubricant; he tore the corner open with his teeth. He squeezed the slick liquid over John’s hand and watched it drip down between his fingers. "Why do have that in your robe pocket? Oh, never mind." John stoked, long and languid, and Sherlock began to roll his hips in time with John’s rhythm. As his cock swelled to full hardness, Sherlock rose to his knees and pulled John’s hand away, lining up his body.

John gasped against his chest. “Condom, Sherlock.”

“In the bedroom. I don’t get the sense you want to wait for me to fetch one.” Sherlock’s voice was an octave lower than normal. “I’m clean. You ran the test yourself. And you’re a doctor, so I presume you’re clean.”

John’s hands slid around to cup the swell of Sherlock’s buttocks. He mouthed the junction of Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. “Yeah, it’s okay.” He lifted his hips to nudge the crown of his cock into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock groaned and sank an inch lower, sliding John further in. “Are you alright? With no...”

Sherlock cut John off with a moan. “It’s fine.”

Slowly, Sherlock sank onto John’s erection until he was fully seated, his bollocks pressing against John’s. With a sigh, Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and paused to savor the way John filled him up while John’s hands continued to massage his buttocks.

John turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s forehead sweetly. “You feel amazing. My god, to feel you like this.” John groaned and captured Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him deeply. He groaned when Sherlock began to move, breaking the kiss when Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck.

Their pace built quickly, until Sherlock was huffing each breath and pistoning his thighs and John was snapping his hips up to meet Sherlock’s rhythm. John’s hands roamed Sherlock’s body, stroking and gripping and pinching, and he kept up a steady stream of encouragement. “Watching you dance … so hot … makes me want you … all the time … gorgeous,” until John came with a groan and shudder, stilling and while Sherlock kept up the pace until John finished. Only then did Sherlock settle into John’s lap and stroke himself to his own peak, holding John’s gaze until he came over John’s belly with a groan that echoed John’s.

Sherlock settled against John, face buried in John’s neck, and remained silent while his breath calmed. John stroked his back, murmuring endearments into Sherlock’s ear. Eventually Sherlock sighed loudly and stood, obviously reluctant to give up John’s closeness. He scrubbed his clean hand through his hair and said, “We’d better get cleaned up and do some actual dance lesson. I really don’t want you to embarrass yourself on the dance floor and we don’t have a lot of time.”

John picked up Sherlock’s tee shirt and swiped at the mess on his belly. “You go on, I’ll be there in a bit.”

Sherlock gave John a small smile and headed toward the bathroom. John watched him go, admiring the fine view of his backside as he walked down the hall. Once Sherlock had closed the door, John let his head fall back against the sofa and sighed sadly. He thought to himself that he should do something about the fucked up situation before he hurt one of the two people he loved most in the world, but wasn’t quite sure what he could do without causing one, two or all three of them pain.


	7. Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the Wedding Rehearsal and Sherlock starts to realize the wedding will actually happen.

_Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score  
Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more._

 

 

The church was dimly lit in the cloudy Spring evening. Sherlock sat in the second pew, groom’s side, with his head against the back of the pew. His eyes were tightly closed. People chattered around him, loudly and with great emotion. It was hateful - he concentrated on trying not to vomit.

The priest finally arrived. He called the wedding rehearsal to order and gave instructions to the organist, the bridesmaids, the bride and groom and best man. He cracked one eye and looked daggers at the priest as he explained how the best man should hand the rings to the groom after pretending to remove them from the ring bearer’s pillow. Honestly, how stupid can traditions get; as if any sane person would tie several thousand pounds of gold rings onto a pillow and then place it in the custody of a six year old boy.

After listening to the priest’s litany, obviously repeated verbatim for hundreds of bridal parties, Sherlock rose to take his place rehearseing the processional and exiting the sanctuary with the rest of the wedding party. But instead of carrying him to the altar rail, his legs carried him out the side door to the lawn.

He heard the door slam shut behind him then swing open again. “Sherlock! Sherlock!” John hurried across the grass. “What just happened?” John grabbed Sherlock’s elbow from behind.

He stopped and turned to face John. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well.” Sherlock put on his most posh public school inflections. “I’d best go home and lie down. Can’t be helped.”

He turned and took two steps before John caught his elbow again and spun him around abruptly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” John ground out the words, staccato, between clenched teeth.

"Oh for gods sake, John. How hard is it? I've been to weddings. I know what to do." Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He really did feel queasy. “I really am not feeling well.”

John leaned closer, tilting his head to examine Sherlock closely. Something he saw in Sherlock’s face made him drop Sherlock’s arm and take a step back. “Alright, then.” All hint of anger was gone from John’s voice. “I’ll make your excuses. Will you join us for the rehearsal dinner?”

“Rehearsal dinner? Not really my area.” Sherlock tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.

John just nodded and turned back toward the church. “I’ll check on you later,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back across the lawn.

~*~

Sherlock was deeply asleep when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jerked awake to find John leaning over him, shaking his shoulder.

“Hi,” John said softly. “I was worried about you. Better now?”

Blinking blearily at the clock, Sherlock nodded - just past midnight. Sherlock marveled that he’d actually fallen asleep. He’d gone to bed to sulk with no expectation that he could ever sleep this night.

“Yeah, a little better.” Sherlock croaked. He shifted onto his back.

“I missed you at the rehearsal dinner.” John sounded sad.

Sherlock sighed. “Wasn’t feeling up to it.”

John quickly stripped to his pants and slid into bed. He propped on his elbow and looked down at Sherlock in the dim light leaking in around the curtains. “I told Mary I’m going to spend the night here. There’s a superstition about the groom seeing the bride before the wedding.”

“Really, John. Superstitions are for idiots.”

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, smoothing them back from his forehead. “I know. I really wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Sherlock turned his head and nuzzled into John’s palm. John dropped his face to Sherlock's curls and inhaled deeply while he stroked Sherlock’s stubbled cheek.

Sherlock dropped his head to John’s shoulder. He pressed his face into John’s warm neck. “I’m trying.” His voice wavered.. “I’m trying, John. To play by the rules. To … it’s hard. I know you want the wedding, the wife, the house in the suburbs. To be sane, reliable Doctor Watson. I know. And I want it for you. I’m trying, I’m … it just ... I ...” Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut with a loud click of teeth. He wasn’t even sure what he’d just babbled, but he knew it wasn’t good.

John’s strong, capable hands stroked his hair, his shoulders, his back. “Hey,” John whispered. “Sherlock. It’s okay. You’re okay.” As if he said it enough times, it would be a fact, and Sherlock would indeed be okay. “Nothing will change between us. We’ll still be us. We’ll still have this.”

A wet sound escaped Sherlock’s throat. There was more he wanted to say; he wanted to beg, really _beg_ John to call off the entire wedding, but he couldn’t seem to force sounds around the jumbled lump of words clogging his throat. He nuzzled John’s neck, breathing in the comforting scent of him. ”How long?” he whispered.

“I’ll have to leave by 10. Mary’s getting her hair done so she’ll be gone from the house by then, so I can get ready.”

That wasn’t what Sherlock had really asked but he let John’s misunderstanding be. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to his real question.


	8. I never knew that I could hurt this way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John and Mary's wedding day. Sherlock realizes he can't continue things the way they've been with John.
> 
> "I love you, Sherlock. And you love me, even if right now you can’t see that this is the best for all of us. You are no more the type to be in a relationship than I am to be alone. You’d hate it in six months. You’d hate me in twelve.”

_Heartache number one was when you left me_   
_I never knew that I could hurt this way._

 

 

The priest gave them final instructions but Sherlock wasn’t listening. Instead he watched John, thinking about how he’d carefully adjusted John’s tie and placed the tie pin he’d been given by a grateful client - like wrapping up a most precious of gifts, sealing it with a bow and giving it away. John gave him a sharp glance so he tuned into the priest's words, still holding John’s gaze. They were to wait in the vestry until their music cue, then John would precede him to the altar, where they’d face the congregation and wait for Mary. Simple.

Why was the priest continuing to blather when it was all so simple? He at last shut up, exited the vestry and shut the door behind.

John glanced at Sherlock and licked his lips. As the doorknob clicked in the jamb, he surged forward, hauling Sherlock down by his jacket lapels and kissing him roughly. Sherlock responded immediately, wrapping his arms around John and holding him tight. John broke the kiss briefly to murmur “Sherlock” then dove back in, invading every crevice of Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue.

It was glorious, stunning, rapturous ...

… until it wasn’t. Sherlock placed his hands on John’s shoulders and gently held him away. He kept his head down so he wouldn't have to meet John’s eyes. “John, we can’t. We can’t do this any more. I’ve come to care for Mary. I can’t do this to her.”

“Sherlock, it’s… Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t do without you. Please.” John’s voice was rough.

Sherlock continued to look at the floor. He could feel the heat radiating off John through the brief distance between them. “Then don’t do this,” he hissed, gesturing toward the door to the sanctuary.

John took a step back and straightened his spine. “We already talked about this, Sherlock.” His voice sounded like a whip crack.

Sherlock finally glanced up. John’s eyes were filled with hurt and confusion. Sherlock wanted to close the gap between them and sooth it away, but he couldn’t. Though it pained him immensely, he couldn’t. “I can no longer be a party to your cheating on Mary. I can no longer be your dirty secret.”

John shook his head. “You’re not my … No, Sherlock. I love you. Don’t do this now.”

The first bars of organ music started on the other side of the door. Sherlock knew they had some time before their cue and wished it away. “John, be reasonable. In fifteen minutes you will be a married man.”

“Sherlock.” John stepped forward, reached for Sherlock’s cheek but Sherlock turned his face away. John’s hand dropped to his side and clenched.

Eyes closed, Sherlock took a deep breath. “I hope to remain your friend but I can no longer engage in a physical relationship with you, John. Continuing to be lovers will endanger too much that I hold dear. That we both hold dear. I will always love you, John Watson, but you will belong to someone else once we leave this room.”

The music shifted to their cue to enter the sanctuary. Sherlock closed the short distance to the door. He turned the knob and held the door open with a gesture for John to precede him, just as the priest had instructed. John paused in the doorway, holding Sherlock’s eye, and whispered, “Of course you’re my friend. I love you, too. Always.” Then he snapped to attention and strode quickly to the altar rail.

Sherlock closed the door softly and followed, taking his place as Best Man, and his place in the wings of John’s life.

~*~

The wedding passed in a blur but the reception dragged on in slow motion. Sherlock tried to eat when a waiter placed a plate in front of him but the food stuck in his throat. The wine, on the other hand, seemed to pass the lump in his throat with no problem. He downed glass after glass of the mediocre riesling while John and Mary whispered to each other and giggled beside him. By the time the maitre’d called for the Best Man’s speech, the wine had eroded the edge off his anguish.

He stood - and froze. He’d carefully written a speech and refined it over the past weeks. Just yesterday he’d transcribed the final draft onto index cards. But after the telegrams, he looked at the cards in his hand, and he couldn’t. Just couldn’t read the innocuous phrases he’d written about love, and how happy John and Mary would be together, and the few mild jokes about them both interspersed. Mrs. Hudson had helped him practice the final draft and assured him it was just right.

But he had something to say. Something else, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

Loosened by the alcohol, Sherlock opened his mouth and set forth a stream-of-consciousness discourse about his life with John. He hardly even paid attention to what was coming out of his mouth, but it must have been at least semi-appropriate because Mrs. Hudson sniffed and dabbed her eyes. He was dimly aware of recounting cases until he got to their most recent unsolved one. At that point his attention snapped into focus with insights from his mind palace about the Buckingham Palace guard who’d been stabbed. He slapped his own face, hoping to sober up enough to think. Then it clicked - Major Sholto. John’s former CO was in danger. And from there it had been like old times, ‘into battle’ with John until the answer had gelled in Sherlock’s mind.

And now, after seeing Shoto into an ambulance and the would-be murderer into the back of a squad car, Sherlock slumped on a bench in the dark garden smoking a cigarette and feeling the first hint of a white wine hangover. He hated it when the hangover started before he’d even slept and wished he’d brought cocaine - a small hit would be a right fine pick-me-up. It was chilly in the dark. It felt good after the too-close atmosphere of the reception. He knew he’d have to go in soon to play the violin for John and Mary’s first dance.

Sherlock sighed and took a long drag. Their first dance as a married couple. He’d composed a waltz ostensibly for John and Mary - but really, for John. Sad, sweet, full of longing. How could anyone hear it and be dense enough to think it was for the ‘happy’ couple?

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned. John stood behind him in the dark.

“I looked all over for you.” He came around the bench and sat down very close to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at John then glanced away. He took a long drag on his cigarette before answering, letting the words waft out on smoky tendrils. “Won’t your wife wonder where you’ve gone?” He couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into his voice.

“She and her girlfriends are having one last round of shots before she’s an ‘old married woman.’ They’re lined up at the bar. I’m sure they’ll be a while.” John slid closer. “What you said, in the vestry. Marriage won’t change anything, Sherlock. Not between us.”

Sherlock made an undignified, disbelieving sound through his nose. He looked up at the sky and spoke without looking at John, voice dripping with his patented brand of sarcasm. “Really. Really, John, nothing will change? Nothing?” He took deep drag and held the smoke, relishing the burning in his lungs.

John sat silent for a few seconds. Finally he dropped his head and looked at his hands, folded in his lap.

Sherlock exhaled. From the corner of his eye, he could see that John’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. Just enough of his wine-and-champaign buzz remained to make him numb to John’s anger. “Tell me, John. Just what does ‘won’t change anything’ mean? Will you come round for a quick shag once the newness wears off your marriage? And you expect me to be waiting with open arms?”

Sherlock turned his head and looked John in the eye. John’s cheeks were flushed and his hands tightly clasped. His nostrils flared on each angry exhale. Sherlock lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was low and angry. “I have never treated you like a quick fuck and you know it.”

Sherlock smiled bitterly. “No, not a quick fuck. Nice long fucks, haven’t they been?”

“Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it right now.”

Sherlock bit his lips between his teeth. He wanted to point out that John was the one who had re-initiated the conversation after Sherlock had made it clear that the sexual relationship between them was over. He was angry and still a little drunk and slightly queasy from the hangover that was sure to come, and not in a mindset to make good decisions - and he was sober enough and rational enough to realize it. Instead of answering, Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders roughly and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He kissed him hard, hard enough it hurt his own lips, moving his mouth roughly over John’s, lips wide apart and tongue crassly invading John’s mouth.

John made an angry noise and twisted, but Sherlock refused to let him go. He continued the assault on John’s mouth, his tongue deep inside it, and ran his hand down the front of John’s stiffly starched suit to cup his sex roughly.

“Is this what you want?” Sherlock bit out angrily, face barely an inch from John’s. “Is this what won’t change?”

John’s body responded in spite of his anger with a thickening in his expensive formal trousers. He pushed Sherlock’s hand away roughly. “No, and you know it isn’t. I don’t want to just fuck. I love you, Sherlock. And you love me, even if right now you can’t see that this is the best for all of us. You are no more the type to be in a relationship than I am to be alone. You’d hate it in six months. You’d hate me in twelve.”

John stood, smoothed the front of his shirt and tugged his waistcoat into place. Looking down at Sherlock, he spoke evenly. “Sherlock, you are my best friend. If that means anything to you, please. Let’s go back in there and get through the rest of this evening.”

Sherlock regarded John sadly then closed his eyes and straightened his posture. He inclined his head toward the open French doors. “Go on in. I’ll have another cigarette and be along in a bit.”

John nodded and turned toward the brightly lit French doors. He didn’t look back.

Sherlock knew that John never doubted he’d follow.


	9. Together, Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night, two men, two separate locations. Two different erotic dreams. The same aftereffect, two different places.
> 
> In other words, sad wanking and mutual pining. And John being a little bit of a dick to Mary.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the numbers, a love that I can't win  
But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end_

_Heartaches by the Number, written by Harlan Howard_

~*~

John woke with a start, sweating. He was dripping-in-his-pants hard, so close to orgasm that his bollocks were drawn up to the base of his cock. He glanced at Mary; she was deeply asleep, thankfully facing away from him.

He’d been dreaming of Sherlock. Sherlock’s perfect pink lips around his cock, sucking him down, his ethereal eyes holding John’s gaze as he sucked and sucked and sucked. John reached for his erection - almost too painful to touch. He needed release, not furtive tugs and muffled breaths with his wife asleep beside him. And if Mary woke up? Could he play this off that was just about to reach for her? He was too close, he’d pop in a second. And Mary, who was used to John’s iron-clad self control, would know something was not right.

He slid out of bed, crouching barefoot on the floor and holding his breath for the space of several heartbeats. Mary slept on. His pants were pulled tight against his tender sac in this position - he needed to move, and fast. John tiptoed toward the door, still holding his breath. In the dark hallway he turned left toward the kitchen, dining room and living room. And the powder room beside the front door. The room the furthest away from the bedroom where Mary slept, blissfully unaware of his erotic obsession with his best friend.

John shut the door as quietly as possible. The lock clicked as he slid the bolt. He waited, not breathing, but no sound drifted down the hall. He opened the toilet lid and rucked up his t-shirt to his underarms. John’s nipples, exposed to the cool air of the loo, hardened quickly - nearly painfully. It only added to his arousal and he thumbed them in turn, pressing hard, relishing the tingle and pull.

Sure that he was safe from being discovered, John eased his blue plaid boxers down his hips and let them fall to the floor. He leaned forward over the toilet and braced his right hand against the wall, holding himself up stiff-armed. Eyes closed, he tried to recapture the dream: Sherlock, on his knees, naked, one hand slipped under John’s bum, squeezing his buttock, the other tugging John’s drawn-up scrotum slightly. Pink lips stretched tight around his girth, hot wet mouth sucking hard, sable curls falling into blue-green-gray eyes that peered adoringly up at John. John’s hand in those sable curls, pushing the hot mouth down, down, down, until Sherlock’s nose was buried in the golden brown curls at the base of John’s cock.

John circled the base of his cock, pulling downwards, angling toward the toilet. He was sticky from nocturnal precome, and so hard it nearly hurt to stroke. He let out a nearly inaudible moan and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He stroked, pulling the foreskin back with each stroke down, drawing it over the glans with each upstroke. Faster, panting, leaning more weight on his right arm until the heels of his feet lifted off the floor. Body stiff, tilting over the toilet, mouth slack, lost in the imagined scene.

John moaned again, louder this time. He wanted more than just a tug from his left hand. He wanted to rut, to thrust, to move and slide and feel another hard body beneath him, large strong hands on him. Panting, he spread his legs wider, knees slightly bent, he reached behind, stroking the cleft between his buttocks with his middle finger. His hips began to move jerkily, thrusting forward into the tight circle of his fist, then back into the pressure of his fingertip pressing his anus. Forward and back, breaths gusting noisily until he gasped and held his breath, stomach clenched tight, and experienced an orgasm that bordered on painful. He heard splashes in the toilet bowl, rhythmic wet bursts of sound in time with the throb of his cock. He bit his lip, eyes still tightly closed, and imagined coming in Sherlock’s mouth. Another splash, then another. Sensations went on and on, until he thought his lungs would burst with the need for air. Open mouthed, gulping air, hips still jerking, finger now knuckle deep in his body from behind, pulses around his finger. “Oh god,” John moaned and dropped to his knees, cock still twitching in his hand.

His chest heaved and still John didn’t move. He didn’t want to give up the dream, the imagined feeling of Sherlock around him, the fantasy that the finger in his arse was long and white, not short and tanned. Raw, his spent cock throbbed in his hand.

“John! Are you ok?” Mary’s voice, a few steps away from the door. John opened his eyes and looked around the dim powder room. He flushed the toilet and eased his shirt and boxers into place silently.

A firm knock. “John! Are you in there?” Mary sounded - what? concerned? no, annoyed. “John!”

He licked his lips. “I’m not feeling well. That fish I had for dinner didn’t settle well.” His voice sounded rough to his own years.

“John! Open the door!” Mary rattled the doorknob.

John rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to open the door to his wife. “Go back to bed, I came down here so I wouldn't wake you.” He shifted to sit with his back to the wall and flushed the toilet again, just to be sure. His left hand was growing tacky.

“John! What …”

John cut her off, louder this time. “I’m sick, Mary. Go back to bed for god’s sake. I just want to be alone to be sick.” His annoyance rung clearly in the tone of his voice.

The doorknob rattled again. “Well, if that’s what you want …”

“Yes, that’s what I want. Go back to bed.”

John heard footsteps receding down the hall. He hung his head, face hot, ashamed that he’d been so short with his wife. She’d been concerned, wanted assurance that he was all right. And he’d snapped at her, locked her out, and sent her packing. What was he becoming? Sneaking off to wank over his best friend in the middle of the night, disturbing his pregnant wife and then yelling at her.

Head lolling, John knew he wouldn’t sleep again that night. And neither would Mary, probably. He wished he could just slip out the front door to avoid having to face her, but that was impossible dressed only in pants and t-shirt. He rose to kneeling and turned on the cold tap and washed his hands quickly. He couldn’t reach the towel so he wiped them on his pants then curled on his side on the cold tile floor.

How would they come out of this without at least one person he loved being devastated?

 

~*~

 

Sherlock drifted toward consciousness, feeling warm and sweaty from a dream of John kneeling him on the sofa, facing toward the back and pushing his shoulders down, spreading his buttocks and licking, sucking and lapping. He fully woke laying on his stomach with an erection pressed into the mattress. It was tempting to thread his hand under his belly and squeeze, rocking his hips to drive his cock into his fist. That was how he’d masturbated when he was 12, until his mother had suddenly taught him how to use the washing machine and abruptly given him responsibility for his own laundry. He’d quickly learned other positions that did not spatter his sheets.

He turned over and lazily stroked himself. Groaning, he rose and trudged to the loo and turned on the shower. While waiting for the water to run warm, he closed his eyes and tried to recapture the dream. John, kneeling behind his spread knees, making sounds like he was relishing the most delicate treat. John’s tongue on him, wet and hot, his fingers pressing in and down.

Sherlock felt a hot dribble down the length of his nearly-vertical erection. He opened his eyes to watch a drop of transparent preseminal fluid roll slowly down its length. Steam billowed from behind the shower curtain so he stepped into the bathtub and drew the curtain tight. He turned the tap as hot as he could stand.

The water streamed over his scalp, neck, back and chest - scorching trails setting his skin tingling. Sherlock ran his palms over his chest, down his sides, stroked his thighs. With his eyes shut tight, he could imagine John was behind him, reaching around to stroke and fondle every inch of his skin. Sherlock groped on the edge of the tub to find his conditioner and squeezed out a generous handful. He smeared the sandalwood scented emulsion over his rigid cock and began to stroke quickly.

Once again he lost himself in fantasy, imagining John’s hand stroking just the way he liked. He swiped the first two fingers of his left hand through the creamy substance and reached behind, stroking his anus the way John would. John, opening him up, first one finger then two, working in time with his hand stroking Sherlock’s cock. A long-held breath gusted out as Sherlock added a third finger, imagining it was John’s cock pushing in, stretching him open as John buried himself to the hilt. The image pushed Sherlock over the edge and he turned toward the spray as he came, the water immediately washing the evidence of his orgasm down the drain.

He grabbed the soap washed his hands roughly, then braced a hand against the tiled wall and hung his head in the shower spray, breathing hard. The hot water cascaded down his forehead and temples, stinging his eyes.

At least that’s what he tried to convince himself the stinging was from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to DulcimerGecko for the chapter title.


	10. Yes, I've got heartaches by the number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hasn't heard from Sherlock in ages. He thinks Sherlock is angry that John broke off their affair. The real reason is much more dark, devious, and closer to home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Various POVs in this chapter - John, Mary, Sherlock
> 
> I know absolutely nothing about hacking, so please don't laugh if Mary's methods of hacking are completely off base.
> 
> Unbetaed so please excuse my mistakes.

_Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score_   
_Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more_   
_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win_   
_But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end_

 

John bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited for the people in front of him to clear the jetway. He was holding his wallet and phone and had a backpack slung over his shoulder. Finally - finally - the elderly couple in front of them stepped over the threshold to the gate and shuffled aside. John thrust his things at Mary. “I have to piss like a racehorse. Hold these, meet you at the bathrooms.” And with that, he took off down the terminal at a race walk pace.

Mary dumped her purse plus John’s things in the first empty seat she found. She held down the ON button on John’s phone. It vibrated to life and pinged a long series of texts - they hadn’t had service while they were on holiday, so John hadn’t checked his texts in weeks. She thumbed the text icon: 32 texts from Sherlock, a couple from Harry, one from Lestrade. She deleted all but the last two texts from Sherlock without reading them. Next she opened his voicemail. 15 messages from Sherlock. She deleted all of those, then cleared John’s call log. That should do it.

John approached just after Mary had shut down his phone and began to gather their things. “I’m sorry, Mary. I shouldn't have dumped my stuff on you like that. Here, let me.” John took everything from her except for her purse. He paused to turn on his phone then frowned at it briefly. “Look at that, Sherlock texted me when he knew we were out of range.’ John smiled slightly at the phone. When he glanced up at Mary, his smile faded and he pocketed the phone. “I’ll, uh, call him later.”

Mary gave him a bright, innocent smile.

 

~*~

 

They’d had a nap and made dinner and now John was half asleep in front of the telly. Mary was sat at the dining room table with her laptop. She’d told John she wanted to catch up on email after their holiday. She opened a new tab and wrote a few lines of code, then another tab for their mobile phone provider’s website. The telecom website’s security was a joke and she had no problem hacking it then using it as a portal to hack their mainframe. In less than half an hour, she’d inserted code into John’s mobile phone’s account to redirect all incoming calls and texts from Sherlock’s number to a pay-by-the-minute mobile phone she’d bought and activated just before the wedding. It was now tucked inside her oldest, shabbiest bra at the back of her delicates drawer.

A glance into the living room told her John was now fast asleep. She typed in a few more lines of code to ensure that all calls he made and texts he sent to Sherlock’s number were also redirected to the burner’s mobile number.

Now all she’d have to do was turn off John’s phone and turn it back on for her changes to take effect. She tiptoed to the living room and sighed in relief when she saw John’s phone sitting on the sofa cushion beside him. She pressed the button to turn it off, waited 30 seconds, then pressed it again to turn it back on. The phone buzzed twice to confirm the modifications had downloaded.

John snoozed on.

~*~

The’d been home three days when the doorbell sounded mid afternoon. Mary answered it to find Sherlock on their stoop. “Hello, Sherlock,” she pipped with a dazzling smile. “How are you?”

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t heard from either of you since you returned. I’ve texted John repeatedly but he hasn’t responded.”

Mary gave Sherlock a look of concern. “I’m sorry. We’ve been busy shopping for baby things and settling back in at work. John’s at the surgery now. Want to come in for tea?”

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. I was hoping for John’s help on a case.” Mary had gathered as much from his body language and knew she was in no danger of Sherlock accepting her invitation to tea.

Mary wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ll tell him you were here. Maybe he can come along once he gets off? I’m sure he just put his phone in his desk drawer while he’s seeing patients.”

Sherlock was already down the steps and halfway toward the waiting cab by the time Mary finished. He waved as he got into the cab then slammed the door.

Mary shut the door softly.

“Mary? Was that the doorbell?” John’s voice drifted in from the back porch, where he was struggling to assemble the barbecue grill they’d received as a wedding gift.

“Just a door to door salesman,” Mary replied. She turned the deadbolt with a dazzling smile.

 

~*~

“It’s the oddest thing, Mary. I’ve called Sherlock, I’ve texted, but nothing. Nothing since the texts he left when he knew we were on holiday.” John’s voice betrayed his frustration.

Mary patted his hand soothingly. “I’m sure he’s just busy. He probably has some big case on. You know how he blocks out everything else when he’s working.”

John shook his head. “But I told him nothing would change. That we’d still do things.”

“He’s trying to respect your new status as a family man. Trying to give you a bit of space.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Think so?”

Mary nodded, wrinkling her nose charmingly. “Yeah. You know how he can be sweet in his own funny way. I’m sure that’s it.”

John sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

“Why don’t you call him again in the morning?” Mary widened her eyes, the picture of a concerned, helpful wife.

John turned over and pulled the duvet to his chest. “Yeah, I’ll call him again. I’m sure he’s fine.”

~*~

Mary was at the supermarket when her phone rang. She answered with a smile in her voice. “Sherlock! How have you been?”

“Mary.” Sherlock sounded serious.

“What’s up?” Mary said brightly.

“I am checking on John. He still is not returning my calls or texts.” Sherlock paused. Mary could hear him breathing. “I thought perhaps he might be upset that I left your wedding early.”

“Oh? Left early, did you?” Mary smiled to herself. “It’s all such a blur, I don’t recall. I’m sure John’s not offended.”

“Well, can you give him a message? I have a case I’m sure would interest him.”

Mary put a smile in her voice. “Sure, will do, Sherlock. Listen, I’m grocery shopping right now so I have to run. I’ll make sure he gets the message.”

“All right. Thanks, Mary.”

“No problem Sherlock.. Bye!”

Mary jabbed the OFF button with her thumb and murmured to herself, “As if I’d pass that along.”

 

~*~

“I think I’m going to stop by Baker Street on the way home. I’m starting to get really concerned about Sherlock.” John was leaning on the edge of the nurses’ station. He’d cycled to work today since his shift started and ended before Mary’s and he’d been too busy to even speak to her until now.

Mary looked up from the chart in which she’d been writing. “You’re going to ride your bike to Baker Street?” She sounded incredulous.

John considered. “I guess I hadn’t thought it out. I could carry it on the Tube. Or you could take it home. Do you have the bike rack in the boot?”

Mary shook her head and went back to her charting. “No, it’s at home. Maybe you could go by tomorrow after work if you haven’t heard from him.”

“I’m afraid he’s really pissed at me. We had a little disagreement at the wedding. We left things a little rough, but then he made that little speech after he played for our first dance and I thought everything was okay. But I looked for him later that night, and he’d gone. Without a word, didn’t even say goodbye. And now it’s been a month and he still doesn’t return my calls or texts.” John licked his lips and looked away.

Mary reached over and patted his hand. “I’m sure it’s fine, John. You know Sherlock. He probably has a big case on and has forgotten there’s anything else in the world.”

“Yeah, I do. But something feels off about this.” John pursed his lips and sighed. “I’m afraid he’s truly upset with me.”

Mary turned bright eyes on John. “What did you argue about? At our wedding, for God’s sake. What was there to fight over at a wedding?”

John looked away before answering. “Just some old stuff.”

Mary laughed. “What, he’s mad you won’t come by to find his pen, or clean the loo, or make him tea every morning?”

“Yeah, old stuff like that.” John tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.

 

~*~

 

A month with no communication, John acting like a jealous son of a bitch over Janine sleeping in his bedroom, Janine playing along beautifully with constant innuendos, the Magnussen case and now John acting completely shocked at his marriage proposal via security camera. It was certainly now Christmas. Sherlock stepped out of the elevator with a smug grin. Perhaps he would still have a chance to hook John after all. And if this morning was an indicator of how happy John was with married life, Sherlock was confused why he’d stayed away so long.

They stepped out of the lift to find Janine knocked out cold, then also a knocked out security guard. Sherlock left John to tend to them while he sprinted up the stairs to Magnuson’s penthouse. Adrenalin surged through his system - the game certainly was on and with John beside him, it would be so much fun.

Sherlock sniffed as he took the stairs two at a time to the penthouse. A sweet, familiar perfume filled the air. He knew that sent - Lady Smallwood, the client who’d sent him after Magnussen, nearly bathed in it. The door stood ajar. Sherlock could see Lady Smallwood pointing a pistol with a silencer attached at Magnussen, who cowered on his knees before her. He could hear Magnussen murmuring.

Sherlock stepped into the room as he spoke. “Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might want to consider changing your perfume.” Sherlock paused for dramatic effect. “Lady Smallwood.”

The black-clad woman didn’t react. She held her gun level on Magnussen and kept her back toward Sherlock. Magnussen glanced at Sherlock, surprised. “Sorry, who? That’s not Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes.”

Lady Smallwood turned her gun before she turned her face. Now looking down the barrel of a presumably loaded pistol, Sherlock stared into the coolly composed face of Mary Watson. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. He quickly reviewed his many deductions about Mary, words flashing around the image he’d built of her in his mind palace. Yes, he’d deduced she was a liar - but wasn’t everybody? That deduction hardly merited attention. But now, to find her holding Magnussen at gunpoint, dressed in black and wearing a tactical vest? His world tilted.

“Is John with you?” Mary sounded so composed, so casual.

Sherlock stuttered, utterly stunned. “He’s umm.”

Mary’s steely-calm voice rang out. “Is John here?”

“He - he’s downstairs.” Sherlock could barely form words in his shock-numbed mind.

Magnussen spoke calmly for a man kneeling with a pistol to his head, “So, what do you do now? Kill us both?”

Sherlock began to speak, using the soothing voice he’d perfected to calm witnesses at particularly gruesome crime scenes. “Mary, whatever he’s got on you, let me help.”

“Oh, Sherlock, just how stupid do you think I am?” Mary’s voice was full of annoyance. “You must believe I’m as dim as John thinks I am.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just shifted his weight from foot to foot and kept his gaze locked with Mary’s.

Mary gestured toward Sherlock with the gun. “What do you think? I don’t know you’re banging my husband? Or is he buggering you? Either way, do you really think you’re getting something over on me?”

Sherlock made a soothing sound in his throat. He made a half step toward Mary.

“Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you.” Mary sounded like a mother whose toddler had frayed her last nerve.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, Mrs. Watson, you won’t.” He lifted a foot in another forward half-step only to be stopped by a bloom of pain in his chest. Sherlock stared at the black hole in his white dress shirt. It started to trickle a thick crimson line toward his waistband. He lifted his eyes and gave Mary a look of utter dismay.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am. But John is mine, and I don’t share.”

“Mary?” Sherlock’s mind can’t seem to process what had transpired in the last thirty seconds.

Mary turned her back to face Magnussen just as Sherlock fell backward and his world went black.


	11. When you come back again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's home from hospital and John's his personal physician. They both know they need to have The Very Important Talk, but these things are hard for both of them.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win_   
_But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end_

 

Mrs. Hudson opened the front door with a sad smile. “Sherlock! Come in, come in.” She stepped back to hold the door. Sweating and pale, leaning heavily on Mycroft, Sherlock crossed over the threshold to Baker Street for the first time in three and a half weeks. After one bullet, two surgeries and two code blues.

They paused at the bottom of the stairs: Sherlock, Mycroft, John and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock looked up the stairs and grimaced. The surgeons had wanted him to remain in hospital for another week but he’d insisted that he was well enough to come home. And when John reminded them that he was Sherlock’s personal physician, they’d signed the discharge orders - glad to be rid of their demanding patient. John went up first, followed by Mycroft, who half-hauled-half-carried Sherlock, then Mrs. Hudson and her everpresent sounds of distressed affection.

Mycroft settled Sherlock on the sofa with the living room pillows piled behind him while Mrs. Hudson made tea and John fetched a glass of water and pain pills for Sherlock. He’d taken one just two hours before but the ride home and climb to 221B had taken a visible toll on him and left him tight lipped and trembling. The pills and water went down easily but Sherlock refused tea. He dropped his head onto the back of the sofa and closed his eyes while the other three had a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft beat a speedy retreat after.

Sherlock had fallen asleep, wrung out by the exertion of the day and opioids. John stood in the doorway to the kitchen and watched him fondly for a moment then went into Sherlock’s bedroom and turned down the covers. He’d made the bed up with fresh sheets that morning and brought down the pillows from the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock’s respiratory therapist had sent home a foam wedge with John the day before. Together with the pillows, it would provide Sherlock with a sufficient elevation to sleep comfortably. John had wanted to hire a hospital bed but Sherlock had resisted vehemently. The foam wedge and extra pillows were their compromise.

Stooping over Sherlock’s too-thin form, John gently shook his shoulder. “Sherlock. You’ll be more comfortable in bed. C’m on.”

Sherlock made a muffled sound and turned his head away from John’s voice.

Knowing that Sherlock would be out cold for hours from the double dose of pain meds, John faced a decision: leave him on the sofa to develop a crick in his neck or haul him to the bedroom and risk tearing his wound. But, it had been three weeks since the last surgery - the chest tube had come out two weeks ago and the last stitches a week after that. Sufficient time had passed for scar to form a strong enough bond that a little jostling wouldn’t harm Sherlock.

With a firm arm around his shoulders, John hauled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock surfaced from his drug-sleep enough to stumble next to John as he lead him down the hall and to stand still while John removed his too-loose shirt and too-baggy trousers. When Sherlock was down to his pants, John helped him into bed and carefully arranged the pillows behind him.

John stood beside the bed, indecisive. It was only four o'clock but he hesitated to leave Sherlock alone. After weeks of trudging between Baker Street and the hospital, he felt oddly out of place now. He could wash up the few dishes in the sink or perhaps read a chapter of the novel he’d been halfheartedly reading for weeks while he sat vigil in Sherlock’s hospital room. It wasn’t necessary to continue the vigil now that Sherlock was home. John could move about the flat and still hear any sounds from the bedroom. But Sherlock looked so pale, so thin, his lips bleached nearly as pale as his cheeks by the afternoon sunlight, and John didn’t want to leave him.

He jerked his jumper over this head then quickly shed his shirt and jeans, came around to the other side of the bed and slipped in. He nestled carefully against Sherlock, one arm around his waist, hand spread on Sherlock’s prominent hipbone.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was thick with narcotic.

“Yeah, I’m here.” John settled a little closer to Sherlock’s side.

“Hmmm. Good.”

Laying beside Sherlock, listening to him breathe, John drifted, not really asleep and not really awake, not thinking of anything. He’d developed the ability to merely exist during Sherlock’s hospital stay. The anxiety of what to do about Mary and their entire fucked up situation settled around his throat when he did think and tried to choke him. It was nice to focus his mind on the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and the gentle susurrus of the of the breath through his nose.

It was a miracle, really, that Sherlock was lying here, breathing. John’s hand curled around Sherlock’s hip and, for the first time since he’d learned three and a half weeks ago that his best friend had been shot, and three weeks ago that his wife had pulled the trigger, John let the grief he’d held at bay wash over him. Silent tears wetting his pillow, John drifted off.

 

~*~

 

“John.”

Jerked awake by Sherlock’s raspy voice, John was disoriented. Streetlight came through the window. He was overwarm from being pressed against Sherlock’s side and his neck hurt from the odd angle forced by the many pillows.

“John.”

Understanding flooded his mind: _Sherlock’s home!_ John eased himself a bit away from Sherlock’s side. “You okay?”

Sherlock swallowed, twice. Very quietly he asked, “Can you fetch a pain pill?”

John eased his hand away from Sherlock’s hip and slipped out of the bed. His dressing gown hung from the hook on the back of the door; he shrugged it on and left the room wordlessly, returning a few minutes later with a tall glass of water and a white tablet. He helped Sherlock to sit and used the loo while Sherlock took the pill and drained the glass. When John returned to the bedroom, he sat on the side of the bed and picked up Sherlock’s wrist, taking his pulse, and felt his forehead with his other hand.

“Better?”

Sherlock nodded. John’s hand slid from his forehead to his cheek. Sherlock’s eyes were intensely blue in the dim light. They hadn’t talked about any of it. They hadn’t really talked at all. For the past three and half weeks, John had spent at least 12 hours of each 24 in Sherlock’s hospital room, but Sherlock had spent the time drifting in a morphine haze. John didn’t fault him that - the pain must be horrible. Ruptured liver, inferior vena cava torn, three ribs shattered, plus the second surgery that had been even more extensive than the first. And cutting through the abdominal wall muscles left a patient in pain for weeks. John didn’t even mention to the doctors that Sherlock was a former user and neither did anyone else - Mycroft, Sherlock’s parents or Mrs. Hudson. They all seemed to look to John for direction in the matter, and John thought the more relief Sherlock could have, the better.

Now they were home at Baker Street and they still hadn’t had the Very Important Conversation that they both knew that needed to take place. John cleared his throat and slid his hand to Sherlock's neck to tease the curl at Sherlock’s nape with his fingertips. “Is it okay? That I stayed here.”

Sherlock spoke, eyes closed. “I assume you’ll be going home now that I’m released from hospital.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was full, near to bursting with all he felt. “I am home.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid slowly open, irises nearly obliterated by the hydrocodone-dilated pupils. Sherlock breathed evenly and watched John without answering.

“I haven’t been.” John stopped, swallowed. “I haven’t been back to her house since that night. I’ve been here.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sleeping in your bed, if you must know the whole of it.”

“Why?”

“It made me feel better. Like things were, I don’t know.” John glanced down at the gauze dressing on Sherlock’s chest. “Like things were as they should have been.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was low and thick.

John glanced up, once again pinned by Sherlock's gaze. He breathed, lips slightly apart, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. He had nothing more to say. He was home.

Sherlock carefully lifted his hand. With a sigh, John slid into the bed beside him, laying his head on the pillows beside Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shifted, wincing, to adjust his position to so that John’s cheek touched his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper.

John nuzzled Sherlock’s shoulder slowly, careful not to jostle the carefully-arranged pillows. “I’m glad, too.”

There was more they needed to discuss, things heavy and round in the air between them, but both men were rung out. They were content to share each other’s warmth and simply breathe.


	12. And said that you were coming back to stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to mend from his gunshot wound. John tends to Sherlock and they exist in the secure cocoon of Baker Street. He's made a decision but there are still very important things they need to discuss. Since neither wants to break their tentative peace, things go unsaid.

_Heartache number three was when you called me_   
_And said that you were coming back to stay_

.

.

John floated slowly toward consciousness with an erection pressed hot and hard against Sherlock’s cleft. When he achieved full lucidity, he started to scoot backward and whispered, “Sorry. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was just…”

“It’s all right.” Sherlock gave a little shrug. “Stay. I’d reach back and hold you, but well…”

John pressed his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Yeah, the pain.” He’d been sleeping with his hand on Sherlock’s waist. He slid it down, pressed flat against Sherlock’s concave stomach. He burrowed his forehead against Sherlock’s too-prominent spine.

“Feels good, Sherlock murmured.

John felt Sherlock swallow twice.

“Please, John,” Sherlock nearly whispered.

John’s hand stroked Sherlock’s stomach, a little lower on each downstroke, until the head of Sherlock’s stiff cock nudged the back of it. John reached down, cupping it, and scooted his hips forward to close the distance between them.

“You’re warm,” John said. Sherlock was, hotter than he should be, sweat slicking his skin, making it easier for John to roll his hips and slide his erection in the crease between Sherlock’s buttocks. “Too warm.”

“The blanket. And you, behind me.”

John chose to believe Sherlock’s explanation because he wanted to. He circled Sherlock’s cock, loose-fisted, and stroked upward. Sherlock shivered.

Six weeks post-op, sleeping entwined every night, usually nude, and this was the first time they’d done more than share a good night kiss. The tentative peace between them felt too fragile for more. John had wanted. He’d wanted more, to hold Sherlock’s hand, to kiss him, rub his back, but existing in the twilight place, friend but not lover to Sherlock, not sure if he was married or unmarried, he’d been afraid to try. And, serving as Sherlock’s personal physician did come with certain ethical dilemmas when he wanted to bugger the patient. John realized that not only had he not had sex in six weeks, but he hadn’t even thought of masturbating. Somehow sex, even autostimulation, hadn’t had a place in his life when he was occupied with Sherlock’s recovery. And Sherlock - six and a half weeks, from the day he was shot and had his first surgery, six from the second - John was certain he hadn’t wanked in that time.

“Is this,” John murmured, kissing Sherlock’s nape. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was breathy. “I ... I can’t... It hurts to move. Can you just...”

“Yeah.” John pressed his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, flat, and sucked. He moved his hips and hand in tandem, carefully stroking down when he pressed into Sherlock’s buttocks, up when he rocked back, slow, steady, careful not to jostle Sherlock. “Do you want me to …”

“Yes.” Sherlock answered quickly, then made several soft “ah” sounds. He panted and swallowed again.

Kissing Sherlock’s neck, John continued the gentle rhythm, enjoying the closeness and the feeling of Sherlock in his arms. He shifted his hip without thinking, trying to get as close as possible, and Sherlock gave a pained gasp. “Sorry. Sherlock, are you…”

“I’m. It’s ok..” Sherlock sighed. “It’s hard not to move.”

Slowly, carefully, John worked Sherlock’s foreskin down, then back over his glans. Down, up, in time with the soft, careful undulations of his hips, enjoying the slide of his cock between Sherlock’s buttocks.

Sherlock gasped again, in pleasure this time, and came, shivering, abdominal muscles clenching. His breath caught in his throat as he pulsed over John’s hand. John continued his tender strokes, rutting softly against Sherlock, and Sherlock drew a breath and moaned, another wave spilling over John’s hand. It had been a long time for both of them.

Kissing his nape, shoulders, spine - as far as his mouth could reach, John continued to carefully stroke Sherlock through his orgasm. When Sherlock finally relaxed with his weight pressed back against him, John spread his sticky hand against Sherlock’s lower abdomen, holding him more firmly in place. He rolled his hips with slightly more force. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, yes.” Sherlock panted. “Just. Yes.”

John quickened his pace, carefully holding Sherlock, their sweat slicking his ruts. He came, digging his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder, groaning, stomach hollowed, hips pressed desperately against Sherlock’s too-thin derriere.

They settled to regain their breath, sweating against each other under the heavy blanket. Sherlock shifted but John pressed the hand still holding his lower abdomen. “Wait. Just, stay. A little bit.”

With a satisfied sigh, Sherlock settled back into John’s embrace. They drifted, hot and content, their chests rising and falling in unison. John could easily have fallen back asleep but he knew that Sherlock usually wanted to clean up quickly after sex, so he kissed Sherlock’s neck one last time. “We’d better get cleaned up.”

Sherlock nodded.

John slipped out from under the covers. He padded naked around to Sherlock’s side of the bed, lifted the blanket and helped Sherlock to stand then laced their fingers together and led him into the bathroom. Sherlock leaned against the wall beside the bathtub, pale, shivering a little, while John turned on the shower.

“Could I.” Sherlock nodded toward the tub. “Has it been long enough, is it healed enough, to have a bath?”

John smiled fondly and flipped the bathtub stopper then turned the lever to shut off the shower spray. He adjusted the tap to make sure the water wasn’t too hot. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

John carefully removed the surgical tape and bandage from Sherlock’s torso. Really, he could have stopped dressing Sherlock’s wound days go, but they both seems to take comfort from the twice-daily routine. He examined the scars - they were more extensive than they’d been after Sherlock’s first surgery. The second surgery required larger incisions for the surgeon to repair the damage to Sherlock’s liver, veins and ribs. John ran his fingertip lightly over the still-angry-pink scars.

“John,” Sherlock said thickly.

“Still hurt?”

Sherlock nodded. John winced.

Sherlock was breathing hard. “Can you help me in?”

John took Sherlock’s elbow and helped him into the tub then sat on the edge of the tub. He leaned over to fetch Sherlock’s shampoo and conditioner. He wet a flannel in the water and squeezed it over Sherlock’s hair, over and over, until it was streaming. Carefully, trying not to pull, John washed Sherlock’s hair, then wrung the flannel over it to rinse. He squeezed a handful of conditioner and worked it through the wet curls then used his fingers to comb out tangles. Leaving the conditioner to work, John washed Sherlock’s face with the flannel, tenderly caressing every plane and hollow.

Sherlock sighed.

John soaped the flannel and continued to wash Sherlock’s shoulders, his back as far as he could reach, his torso, his legs and groin. Sherlock relaxed and let John minister to him. They remained silent. When he was done, John helped Sherlock sit up so he could rinse his hair a final time then settled him against the back of the tub and added a little more hot water. John wiped off with the wet flannel then hooked a towel around his hips. “Enjoy your bath. I’ll go start coffee.”

He started the coffeemaker and stood beside it to watch the stream of hot liquid fill the carafe. John felt like he’d made a decision - or his body had made it for him. He felt more focused than he had in the past six weeks. They'd been cocooned, hidden away from the world and insulated in their own reality since Sherlock's homecoming. John assumed Mycroft had taken care of getting him a leave from the clinic. He hadn't called, and no one from the clinic had contacted him, but funds appeared in his bank account every two weeks. For all he knew, Mycroft was paying him his usual salary to take care of Sherlock round the clock. He didn't much care either way. He was quite content to retreat from the world and let things drift. John shook himself out of his reverie when the carafe was full. He prepared two mugs and headed back to the bathroom to check on his patient-turned-lover.

Sherlock appeared to be asleep when John entered the bathroom . He sat both coffee migsvon the floor beside the tub and settled himself once again on the edge. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hey,” John said when Sherlock opened his eyes. “Mind palace?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. John noticed how sunken his eyes were in the sockets. Sherlock’s face had gone from lean to gaunt in the weeks since his gunshot wound and subsequent surgeries. John silently resolved to coax him to eat more often as he bent to kiss Sherlock’s razor-sharp cheekbone then his damp temple. “Ready to get out?”

Sherlock sighed and gripped the side of the tub. John realized just how tricky it was going to be to get him out. With shattered ribs and abdominal incisions still healing, Sherlock would not be able to use his core to rise up from the tub, and the tub was too small for him to roll over on his hands and knees. Sherlock seemed to realize it at the same time and looked at John with alarm in his eyes.

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.”

John smiled crookedly. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, smartest man in England. Surely you can figure a way out of our bathtub.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid half closed. “Ours.”

“Hmm?”

“You said our bathtub. Ours.”

John smiled softly. “Well, isn’t it?” He covered Sherlock’s hand that gripped the side of the tub and squeezed.

Sherlock hummed contentedly. “Then I’d better get out of our bathtub before the water gets much colder. Didn’t they teach you anything about lifting patients in medical school?”

“They taught us to call a nurse for things like that.” John lifted an eyebrow and grinned sardonically.

Sherlock started to laugh then gasped. “Don’t make me laugh. Hurts,” he wheezed.

John slid a hand down Sherlock’s back and helped him sit forward. “If it hurts anyway, let’s go ahead and get you out.”

With grunts on behalf of the doctor and gasps on the part of the patient, John was able to maneuver Sherlock out of the tub. It left Sherlock left shaky and pale and leaning heavily on John. John wrapped him in a towel and trundled him into bed, hair still streaming. He discarded Sherlock’s towel on the floor, then his own, and climbed in beside Sherlock. He pulled up the covers and tucked them carefully around Sherlock then settled back with Sherlock firmly grasped to his chest. They lay quietly for a while before Sherlock said, so low John almost missed the words, “Did you mean it?”

John knew to what Sherlock referred - his reference to ‘our bathtub’ earlier. He also knew what Sherlock was really asking: what does ‘our’ mean, how long will ‘our’ last, will you stay, are you going back to her, and so much more. John’s eyes misted at hearing such a tentative tone from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was supposed to be cutting, and rude, and sure, and as unchanging as granite.

He licked his lips before answering. “Yeah, I mean it.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head where curls were still matted down with water. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	13. But the day that I stop counting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft shares information about John’s legal status as a husband and father. John and Sherlock need to make plans to do what’s best for the baby, but it’s hard for them to talk about their feelings.

_Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score_   
_Everyday you love me less, each day I love you more_   
_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win_   
_But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end_

 

Two large white envelopes lay on Mycroft’s desk, one bulky and the other thin. Mycroft’s face was as impassive as always. “Are you going to tell me why you called me here, or make me guess?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft inclined his head toward the envelopes. “I thought you’d be interested in some news I received. First, Doctor Watson is not actually legally married. Marriage entered into under false identity on the part of either party is not valid in the United Kingdom. Technically, John was never married, so he will not have to file for divorce. And second, the baby is his. DNA testing shows a certain match.”

Sherlock picked up the thin envelope and slid his thumb under the flap to break the seal. He pulled out the single sheet and scanned it quickly, then looked up to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Where did you get John’s sample?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “John was in the Army, Sherlock. Military service basically voids any privacy or agency over one’s body while enlisted. It was a simple matter.”

“It says on the report that Mary had amniocentesis. How did you manage that?”

“A simple matter. Mary’s chart already carries the large red Advanced Maternal Age stamp. A short conversation with her obstetrician was all it took.”

Sherlock scowled. “So now you’re meddling in the NHS, too? Putting the foetus at risk just to satisfy your morbid curiosity?”

Mycroft remained unflappable. “The doctor had already decided to suggest amniocentesis. I assure you, I did not sway his recommendation on the matter or his suggested course of treatment. Mary could have refused the procedure. She agreed because she wanted that report. And the risk is minute.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his brother in the dimly lit office. “And why is she still free, Mycroft? Clearly she’s a threat to society.”

“That is a matter best left to me, brother mine. You concern yourself with John. I’ll concern myself with Mary. But, be assured, she is no threat to you or to John.”

Sherlock frowned at the single sheet of paper in his hand. “The sex of the baby is blank.”

Mycroft inclined his head toward his brother. “That information was of no consequence to me. I did not request it.”

Sherlock snatched up the bulky envelope and tore it open. It was a lengthy brief prepared by Mycroft’s legal staff. He flipped to the last page, where the conclusion was outlined: John was not, in fact, married. The brief was signed by three lawyers and notarized. Under the notary seal was another seal, from the City of London Registrar. Sherlock glanced sharply at Mycroft again. “You already had this filed with the registry office.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Might it have occurred to you to ask John first?” Sarcasm dripped from Sherlock’s words.

“Might you show a little gratitude? It was a considerable burden on my legal team.”

“But you could have shared it with John first.”

Mycroft frowned. “It’s not like the registry office has a standard form for ‘my wife lied about every detail of her life so the marriage needs to be voided.’ My legal team had to do extensive research. There is not a large body of precedent cases. Do you really think John would chose to stay in a sham marriage with the person who shot his lover?”

Sherlock blew out a long breath and sat with his eyes closed for a second. The envelope still contained another document, three pages stapled in the top left corner. He slipped the document out and scanned through it quickly then glanced at Mycroft with pain in his eyes. “He isn’t assured custody of the baby, even if the marriage was entered into under false identity?”

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the desk. That mundane action spoke volumes to Sherlock:  Mycroft had directed his legal team to search every avenue to assure John could take his child as soon as it was born. But their research had turned up disappointing results. Even though the child was conceived under false pretenses, Mary had an equal claim to John’s for custody of the child. And depending on the judge assigned to their case, Mary might have an even better claim. Many of the family court judges were still deeply traditional when it came to a mother keeping her child near. And in either case, it could take months or even years for the case to make its way through the family court system. Mary could bolt with the baby in that time. Sherlock dropped the report back to the desk and rubbed a hand down his face.

“So. What do you recommend?”

Mycroft’s eyes were unreadable in the dim light. “You read it, brother mine. John’s best strategy would be to go back to her. Convince her that he’s forgiven her. Make her believe he wants to be a happy family. He can have a custody motion ready to file as soon as the child comes. He’ll most likely be granted temporary custody, at least until Mary counter files. He can take the child from the hospital based on the temporary custody order.”

“Or, you could bring her in, she could give birth in a cell and John can take the baby.” Sherlock’s sardonic tone lilted through his words.

Mycroft rose and turned his back to Sherlock. He clasped his hands behind his back. The index finger of his right hand twitched. “I cannot do that at this time, Sherlock. Do not press me for reasons. I cannot share it with you.”

Rage boiled in Sherlock’s belly. He wanted to shout at his brother, to reach out and sweep the hateful documents off the desk, to break something. But he knew any childish outburst would only make matters worse. If Mycroft had reasons to allow Mary her freedom, nothing he could say or do would change those reasons. He swallowed his anger with a sigh and gathered up the envelopes.

“I hope those reasons are very good ones. Even suggesting to John that he forgive her will cause him distress. And by association, distress me.” Sherlock rose with a smothered wince - it still hurt to get up from a seated position. He grabbed his greatcoat from the coat tree beside the door and shrugged into it.

Mycroft turned toward him as Sherlock opened the door. “What will you tell him?”

Sherlock frowned. “The truth.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “For once.”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock had gone out alone and that made John worry. Since his convalescence, Sherlock had so rarely gone anywhere alone and now John felt fretful to have been left at home. He’d asked Sherlock if he’d wanted company but Sherlock had answered that he’d received a summons from Mycroft. John was only too glad to escape an encounter with Sherlock’s brother; he rescinded his offer.

John had fiddled about the flat for the two hours he’d been alone. Since Sherlock’s injury, Mrs. Hudson had abandoned all pretense of not being their housekeeper. She’d thrown herself at 221B with a vengeance: straightening, scrubbing and dusting. She seemed to channel her worry and concern over Sherlock into making the flat gleam. This left John with little to do other than wash out their coffee mugs from that morning. He poked about on his blog for a bit but couldn't come up with anything to post. What was he to say? _‘I’m taking care of Sherlock night and day after my wife shot him and he coded on the operating table? He’s doing great after surgeons dug a bullet out of his liver and he escaped hospital and ran around London to stage a scene where my wife revealed her lying, murderous nature to me, then he collapsed and coded a second time. Surgeons had to dig around in his chest again but he’s doing fine now.’_ No, that was not the way to reveal his fucked up situation to his friends and family. He wasn’t sure exactly how he’d tell everyone but he was certain a blog post was not the right way.

He snapped the laptop closed in disgust and rose to pace about the flat. He needed something to do, something to keep his mind occupied. Something to keep him from thinking. Without Sherlock there to take up all the space in his head, John came dangerously close to falling into despair over his situation. He grabbed the knitted afghan from the back of the sofa and refolded it even though Mrs. Hudson had folded it perfectly just the day before. He went to the window and admitted to himself that he was just waiting for Sherlock to come home.

He was still standing there with his hands in his pockets when the black car pulled up and Sherlock climbed out. John felt his heart actually leap in his chest, so great was his delight that Sherlock was home. He listened to Sherlock’s tread on the stairs and turned to face him as Sherlock entered the flat carrying white, catalog-size envelopes in his hand. John sucked in a breath when he saw Sherlock’s expression.

“Sherlock.” All of John’s concern compressed into those two syllables.

Sherlock looked at him briefly then turned to hang up his coat and scarf. John waited at the window with a frown until Sherlock crossed the room to him. “What is it? What did Mycroft say?” John wanted to add about Mary’ but he couldn’t force her pseudonym past his lips.

Sherlock sat down heavily at the desk and placed the envelopes in front of him then massaged his brow with his fingers. “Mycroft has had his legal department doing some research the past few weeks. This,” he picked up the thick envelope, “is their results. It turns out that you are not actually married. Marriage under false identity is automatically void.”

John dropped into in the other desk chair. “That’s good news. It simplifies things. I won’t have to file for divorce.” John opened the envelope and pulled out the fat document. He scanned the first page then flipped to the last page and inspected the signatures and seals. “So it’s official. The registry office officially voided the marriage.” He glanced at Sherlock, who continued to rub his forehead. “Sherlock, this is good news.”

Sherlock nodded into his fingertips and continued to rub. Alarm crept into John’s voice. “What is it?”

Sherlock handed John the other envelope. John flipped it open and drew out the report, quickly scanning it. He grinned. “It’s really mine. I’m actually going to be a father. I had my doubts, you know, since everything she said was a lie.” Sherlock finally dropped his hand but an anguished look continued to haunt his eyes. John continued in confusion, “Sherlock, it will be ok. If you don’t want a baby around, I’ll find another flat. We’ll still see each other, we’ll just live apart until the baby is older. It will be up to you, whenever you think he’s old enough for you to tolerate, we’ll come back.”

Sherlock flinched like John had slapped him. “Is that what you think? That I don’t want your baby around the flat?” Sherlock laughed. It had an hysterical edge. “No, John. I would welcome your child and care for him like my own. If only it were that simple.” He drew out the second set of papers from the thicker envelope and silently handed it to John.

John’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he read through the legal brief. He silently placed it on the desk when he was done. Sherlock glanced at John’s face; it remained impassive. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while.

Finally, John cleared his throat and began to speak. “This will be all right. It will. I’ll file for custody and fight it as long as it takes. Who knows, she might not even fight. Who knows? She might drop the baby like a calf and walk away. We really don’t know a thing about her. I have no idea what she’ll do. The month we were actually together after we found out she was pregnant was pretty hectic. She acted like she was excited about the baby but she did a lot of acting about a lot of things. I don’t really know if she wants the baby or not. It’s not like we were trying for one.”

Sherlock laid his hand over John’s and squeezed. John realized he’d been babbling and shut up. His face crumpled and he let out an agonized gasp, “Oh, Sherlock. I’ve been so stupid.” He crossed his arms on the desk and dropped his head into them. “I saw what I wanted to see. I believed what I wanted to believe. Because it was easier to just go along with her, with the wedding plans. I told you that I didn’t think you were the type to be in a relationship, that I was marrying her because you’d get tired of me and end up hating me. But even that was a lie. I was marrying her because it was easier than stepping up and telling her the truth.” A muffled wet noise escaped around his folded arms. “What you said, months ago. That I cared more for what people think than I do for how you feel. You were right. You were _right_! I’ve been so _stupid_.”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock’s hand hovered over John’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do. These things were hard for him - when people got emotional, when people were upset. He tended to freeze with everyone except Mrs. Hudson. That night the Americans had roughed her up, he’d responded to her tears on instinct, pulling her close and murmuring reassurances. Why was it so easy with Mrs. Hudson and so hard with everyone else?

But this was John. He loved John. Loved him better than anyone in the world, even Mrs. Hudson. He stopped thinking and let instinct take over, holding John firmly by the elbow and hauling him to the sofa. They fell together onto the worn leather cushions and Sherlock maneuvered John to wedge him between the back of the sofa and Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock tucked John’s head under his chin. He didn’t want to have to look John in the eye when he delivered the rest of the news. He held John tightly, one hand cupping John’s head and toying with his hair, the other hand stroking his back. The rhythm of stroking first up then down on top of John’s jumper calmed them both. Sherlock stayed silent and let the warmth of his body and the stroke of his hands gentle John. He didn’t need to speak hollow words about things turning out right. He didn’t know how things would turn out and he was honest enough with himself to admit he was scared by the prospects.

John’s breathing finally evened out. Sherlock knew it was time to tell John of Mycroft’s plan but he hesitated. He bargained with himself - he’d tell John after four more strokes, and started counting each soothing motion of his hand up and down John’s back. Four strokes passed, then four more, and Sherlock fell into a pattern of counting 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 over and over.

Twenty minutes passed and finally he could put it off no longer.  “Mycroft.” Sherlock’s throat closed around the word. John tilted his face up to meet Sherlock’s eyes but Sherlock couldn’t bear to continue while looking into John’s hollowed eyes. He tucked John’s face back into his shoulder and ran his fingers through the hair at John’s nape. “Mycroft’s lawyers think your safest course of action would be to return to Mary until after the baby is born.”

Sherlock felt a hot gust of air on the skin in the open collar of his shirt, followed by John shaking his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “No. Absolutely out of the question.” Sherlock felt John swallow before he continued. “And why the hell hasn’t Mycroft brought her in? What the fuck is his game? Why is she still roaming London with a gun?”

“I don’t know. My brother won’t tell me what it is but he has a plan. Things are happening behind the scenes and for some reason he wants to keep Mary free.”

John rose up on his elbow to face Sherlock. “I have no idea what he wants with her, but I’d feel better if she were to give birth in a locked ward. God only knows what harm she might do to the child.”

A wrinkle appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “You don’t think she’d harm her own baby?”

John sighed. “I don’t know what I think any more. I didn’t think she’d shoot her friend.”

“She shot me because I tried to take you away from her.”  Sherlock sounded thoughtful.

John settled back down onto Sherlock’s chest. “I’m not a possession to be passed between you.”

“I know that.”

John huffed a laugh. “I’m not sure she does.”

Sherlock resumed stroking John’s back. He was quiet for a time then kissed the top of John’s head and said, “You need to do what’s best for your child.”

John tilted his head so he could see Sherlock’s face. “And for us. There has to be a way that’s best for all of us.”

Sherlock tightened his arms around John. He didn’t want to give up what he and John had but he remained silent. The decision was John’s to make.


	14. You Came Back But Never Meant To Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Christmas: John deals with the aftermath of Sherlock's shooting Magnussen and his return to Mary.  
> John's truly in a lot of heartache.

_Heartache number three was when you called me_   
_And said that you were coming back to stay_   
_With hopeful heart I waited for your knock on the door_   
_I waited but you must have lost your way_

 

 

A weary sigh escaped John’s lips as he settled onto the sofa, propped his sock-clad feet on the coffee table and flipped on the telly. With his other hand, he brought his beer bottle to his lips and downed a third of it in one gulp. What a hellish 24 hours it had been. First, Sherlock drugged his family and Mary, then the nightmare at Appledore, watching Sherlock blow a man’s brains out two feet in front of his face, then the sleepless night at the police station.

John still wasn’t sure how Mycroft had worked it out, or whose arse Mycroft had kissed, but just as the sun rose, an officer came to the holding cell and told John he was free to go. He’d collected his wallet, phone and keys and staggered out onto the pavement. He’d expected a black towncar to be waiting but was disappointed in that. He waited about an hour and finally caught a cab when Mycroft failed to appear.

Then came a heated grilling by Mary, who had wanted to know every tiny detail of what had taken place at Appledore. If John hadn’t been distrustful of her before, he would have become so after her probing, manipulative questions. Finally, well after noon, John had taken a shower and slept for three quarters of an hour. He jerked awake from a nightmare in which the tables had been reversed and Magnussen had been the one to blow Sherlock’s brains out less than a yard from John. He’d been unable to fall back asleep so he’d come into the kitchen to find something to eat and had breathed a sigh of relief to have found the house silent and deserted. He’d spent the afternoon alternatively calling Mycroft’s mobile and his many office numbers, emailing him and texting, begging for news of Sherlock. Mary had returned about seven in the evening with a takeout bag and no explanation of where she’d been.

They’d eaten in silence, on paper plates at the coffee table, side by side on either end of the sofa with the telly on to fill the silence. John had fallen asleep again for a few minutes watching a documentary on World War II. Mary had spent the evening in the bedroom doing god only knew what.

And now, John just wanted to relax and have a few beers to help take his mind off the nagging worry eating at his guts. Mycroft had yet to return any of John’s messages but that didn’t stop John from obsessively checking his mobile for text, voicemail and email. He even kept the cordless phone to their home landline close by, but no call came all day. He watched a football match without any real attention until he emptied his beer, then heaved himself to his feet to get another.

Mary sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with a glass of milk and her laptop. Under normal circumstances, John would have kissed her hair and asked what she was doing. Today, he just glanced at her then jerked open the refrigerator. He fished out two bottles of beer - to save himself having to see Mary again when he needed another refill. Slamming the fridge, he turned back toward the living room and an evening of drinking and worrying.

The officers at the police station had not shared any information with John. He’d had no idea where Sherlock was or what the charges against him were. When he’d been discharged, John had asked the desk sergeant if he could see Sherlock. The sergeant had given him a sympathetic look and told him to go home - that wasn’t an answer.

And now, twelve hours later, John still had no idea where his partner was nor if he was being charged with murder. In any normal circumstance, he was sure Sherlock would have already been booked on murder charges. He had killed a man in cold blood in front of a dozen witnesses, after all. But having a brother who ran the British Government, including the British Secret Service, was not a normal circumstance. John was not a godfearing man but he prayed with all his heart that Mycroft was able to work something out to keep Sherlock out of prison.

John took another drink while he marveled at his own relative morality. Before he met Sherlock, he’d been so upstanding, defending Queen and Country, honoring his Hippocratic Oath, saving lives and defending democracy. Then Sherlock had hit like a hurricane, spinning his iron-clad moral compass with a swirl of coat tails, cutting through John’s rock-hard sense of justice with cheekbones sharp as diamonds. And now here John sat, praying that Sherlock could get away with murder. Cold-blooded murder - all because Sherlock had calculated wrong.  A giggle that bordered on hysteria bubbled up from John’s throat as he shook his head over their sad, sad situation.

Mary came into the living room and sat a little closer to John than she’d sat during dinner. She glanced sharply at John’s feet on the coffee table. John half hoped she’d say something about his feet on the table. It would give him an excuse to be short with her - maybe he could even work up enough ire to escalate things to the point he could justifiably sleep on the sofa. To John’s disappointment, she looked away without a remark.

They stared at the television. John could not care less about the football match and he knew Mary was indifferent to football but he took a perverse satisfaction in leaving the channel alone. After a quarter of an hour Mary sighed. She looked directly at John for the first time in hours. “John, you must be exhausted. Come to bed.” Her tone was wheedling.

John reached for the extra beer and cracked the lid. He took a drink from the bottle then gestured with it. “You go on. I’m not really tired.” He looked at Mary directly - she looked tired. The lines around her mouth appeared deep in the lamplight. She met his eyes then glanced away. He could tell there was more she wanted to say. Or could he? At one time he’d thought he could read her expressions. That was before he realized he didn’t know her at all. Maybe there was more she wanted to say, maybe not.

Finally Mary looked away. She stood and smoothed her jumper over her prominent stomach. She straightened her spine before she spoke. “I understand if you don’t want to have sex with me. It’s not like I’m the slim girl you married. Just come to bed to sleep. I don’t expect you to want any more than that.” She patted her distended belly meaningfully.

Normally John would have said something like he considered her beautiful no matter what. He actually huffed a laugh out loud at the thought. What, if anything, about his life with Mary was normal? With any given pregnant woman, he would have assured her that she was beautiful and desirable. But now, knowing what he knew, Mary’s remark just felt manipulative. And John hated to be manipulated.

“You know what, Mary? It might be best if I just sleep in the guest room. I won’t be good company in bed tonight and you need your rest.” John’s tone was firm. He was telling, not asking.

Mary looked a little uncertain. She cradled her belly with both hands. “Well, if that’s what you want.”

John nodded and looked back toward the television without answering.

 

~*~

 

The morning light streaming through the east facing window in the guest room woke John early. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head. After Mary retired, he’d had another two beers then stumbled to the guest room well after midnight. The alcohol had helped him sleep. If he’d had nightmares, he didn’t remember and they hadn’t awakened him. But now the bright sunlight made his head thump.

He managed another two hours of sleep and woke sweating from having been burrowed under the blankets for so long. He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers then his shirt then ventured out into the hallway, pausing for a moment to listen for any sound of Mary. The only sound breaking the silence was the hum of the furnace. If she was at home, she was reading or doing some other quiet activity.

John used the hallway bathroom then glanced into the living room on his way to the kitchen - no signs of Mary. He found a note on the kitchen counter:

_I have a full shift today. Will be home around 7. ~ M_

Sighing in relief, John both relished and dreaded the thought he’d have the day to himself. A wave of anxiety washed over him at the thought of worry-filled hours. Why the hell didn’t Mycroft get in touch with him?

Another anxious thought came when he read Mary’s note a second time. He realized he’d have to see about a job. He couldn’t expect Mycroft to continue regular deposits into his account if he wasn’t taking sole care of Sherlock any longer. His fists clenched at the thought of Sherlock in a jail cell. How much longer would it be until he could see Sherlock? Was he being treated well? _Where was he?_

John went back into the bedroom and picked up his mobile from the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and typed out a text to Mycroft, sent it, then copied and pasted it into an email which he also sent off to Mycroft. Finally he left brief voicemails at each of Mycroft’s numbers. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, John blew out his cheeks in a loud sigh. He didn’t want to just sit around the house all day. He needed to occupy his mind until he heard from Mycroft. He decided he’d go to Baker Street. He needed to gather some clothing and toiletries. He could visit with Mrs. Hudson and explain why Sherlock hadn’t come home. He closed his eyes tightly at the thought of Mrs. Hudson. Surely she’d worried when Sherlock never returned from his Christmas holiday. How thoughtless of him not to call her.

Forty-five minutes later he’d showered, dressed, had coffee, walked to the Tube and found himself on the train heading toward Baker Street. He sighed when he remembered all the time he’d wasted aboard the train when he’d lived in the suburb with Mary. Really, it didn't make sense to live so far out and commute so far to and from work. He closed his eyes and longed for the familiar surroundings of Baker Street, the sound of Mrs. Hudson hoovering, the traffic outside the window. He’d only been gone two days and he already missed it terribly.

He let himself in the black door and went directly to Mrs. Hudson’s door. She answered on his first knock and gestured him inside with a long face. Mycroft had already been by to explain the rudimentary details of what transpired at Christmas and to inform her that he would pay the rent as long as Sherlock was detained.

Mrs. Hudson made tea and they sat across from each other at her kitchen table, worrying. Mrs. Hudson asked John if he minded if she smoked. He smiled and assured her he didn’t. In fact, he decided to have a cigarette with her - the first cigarette he’d smoked since his Army training days at Sandhurst. After an initial coughing fit, John found the cigarette calming.

Mrs. Hudson followed him up the stairs and fidgeted around the flat while he packed a bag. After he sat it on the landing, he asked Mrs. Hudson to sit with him for a while. John sat in his chair and Mrs. Hudson sat in Sherlock’s. They talked of nothing important - mostly they just worried together. John drifted off without realizing it and woke an hour later to find that Mrs. Hudson had tucked the afghan around him. He stretched and looked at his watch:  1pm. There wasn’t any real reason to return to the house in the suburbs. John decided to stay home at Baker Street for as long as possible and pretend it was any normal day. He cleaned the fridge, did a load of laundry, changed the sheets and sorted the mail. The familiar routines calmed him and he could almost pretend that Sherlock would come thundering up the steps at any moment.

The text chime made him start later that afternoon.

Mycroft Holmes: _No need to worry. Arranging plans for SH._

John replied:   _Thanks, I guess. What plans?_

Mycroft Holmes:   _Not at liberty to share at this time. Will inform you as soon as possible._

 

John sat down at the kitchen table. He stared at his phone and fought the urge to punch something. He still didn’t know anything about Sherlock’s situation, other than that Mycroft was indeed trying to arrange things. He paused to pray fervently that Mycroft would be successful before he replied.

_Thank you. Please keep me informed._

Mycroft Holmes: _I will. No need to worry._

John laughed at loud at Mycroft’s text. No need to worry? Only the Ice Man could say something so ludicrous at a time like this.

John put the phone on the table and folded his hands. He needed to make a decision about work. He really didn’t want to go back to the surgery and work with Mary but he did need to find a job. If he were going to play the role of Family Man until the baby came and his custody petition was filed, part of that role was providing for the family. John punched Mike Stamford’s contact; Mike answered on the first ring. They chatted a bit then John got to the point, telling Mike that he was looking for a job and would appreciate Mike’s recommendation if any job came open at the hospital. Mike assured John he’d make some inquiries and they rang off.

John was folding a load of towels when Mike called back later. He told John of a job opening in the A&E and that he’d already talked to the A&E’s Medical Director on John’s behalf and arranged an interview for the following Monday. John was delighted at the prospect and thanked Mike profusely.

Twenty minutes later, John’s text chime sounded again:

Mycroft Holmes:   _You will be offered the job. Take it._

John stared at the text. He’d thought things went a little too smoothly with Mike and a sudden job interview, but hadn’t stopped to consider that it smacked of Mycroft’s meddling. Normally John resented Mycroft's interference in his and Sherlock’s lives, but in this instance, he would take any help Mycroft could offer and be grateful for it. He tapped out a reply:

_Thank you. I appreciate your help._

 

~*~

 

They passed another evening in near-silence. Mary brought home takeout again. This time they both sat in the living room, John on the sofa and Mary on the side chair. They watched a movie, one from the 90s they’d both seen several times, but it filled the silence and the time. Mary went to bed with a short ‘goodnight’ as soon as the movie ended. She shut the door behind her.

John retreated to the guest room a short time later. He lay awake and thought about Mary in the next room. What did she want? What was she thinking? Was it enough for her that he was in the house? She didn’t appear to be especially contrite, nor did she appear to be especially hostile. It felt more like she was tolerating his presence for the sake of appearances. Is that what she wanted? The appearance of a regular suburban family:  mum, dad, 2.1 children and a dog? Would that be enough for her, at least until the baby came?

John clenched his eyelids at the thought of being in the birthing room with Mary. Such an intimate, personal time - the birth of a couple’s child. He’d done an OB rotation during medical school and was touched by how close the birth experience drew a couple. He’d attended more than a dozen births and been awed by each new infant’s first breath, first wail, the first time a new mother held her child. A tear slipped down his cheek at the memories. Could he keep up a facade long enough to make it to the birth? Could he hold her hand, hold up her shoulders while she pushed, get her ice chips, rub her back? Another tear slipped out, this time one of bitterness. The thought of acting a role at his child's birth twisted in his chest. At time that should be joyous, that should draw he and the child’s mother closer - and he was to share it with a stranger-assassin-murderer.

He had to stop this - stop the thoughts before they drove him mad. He took deep breaths and thought of Baker Street, of the dusty living room and messy kitchen, his old bedroom at the top of the stairs, Sherlock’s broken headphones on the skull, the big bed he now shared with Sherlock. The smell of biscuits coming up through the floorboards when Mrs. Hudson baked. The flat door hanging open all day, Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs, the sound of violin music in the middle of the night. These comforting thoughts carried John off to the first peaceful slumber he’d had since Sherlock shot their future to hell.


	15. That's The Day My World Will End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four days after Christmas, John finally gets to visit Sherlock. They have one last hour of privacy.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win_

_But the day that I stop counting, that's the day my world will end_

 

 

Four days. John had tried to fill up the four days since Christmas with activity to keep his mind off everything that had happened Christmas Day. He’d visited Mrs. Hudson twice. The second time he’d ended up napping in Sherlock’s - their - bed until after nightfall then reluctantly dragging himself back to the suburban house he couldn't bear to call home to fidget half the night away. He managed to avoid Mary most of the time and she seemed to be fine with the situation. She spent most of her time away from the house but there weren’t enough hours in the work week to cover all of her absences. After the first night, she had never suggested John sleep in the master bedroom. She did initiate physical contact, kissing John’s cheek goodbye, taking his hand across the breakfast table, laying her hand on his arm when she passed him in the hall. John was fine with that. It made it easier to keep up his facade of ‘loving but wary’ if he allowed her to touch him. He smiled a lot and that seemed to be enough to appease Mary.

 

He still couldn’t puzzle out what Mary wanted from him so he avoided thinking about it, just as he tried to avoid thinking about everything else that had happened in his life in the last eight months.

 

Midmorning of the fourth day found John at a Central London coffee shop, reading a newspaper and sipping black coffee. He’d taken the Tube into town before the morning rush hour and walked aimlessly until he found himself in front of a coffee shop where he and Sherlock had often shared a pastry over morning coffee. He took their usual booth and tried to immerse himself in the day’s news. He was  fighting a losing battle with his attention span when his text alarm chimed.

 

Mycroft Holmes:   _A car will pick you up in 20 minutes_

 

John fumbled his phone in shock. He understood what Mycroft had left unsaid: he was going to see Sherlock. He quickly tapped out an affirmative reply.

 

~*~

 

A ubiquitous black car pulled over in front of the coffee shop exactly 20 minutes later. John was surprised to find the back seat empty. He’d expected that Mycroft would accompany him. He greeted the driver/agent and then fell to silent musing. He knew the drill - no use questioning the agent assigned to drive him. He wouldn’t get any information.

 

They crawled along in midday London traffic for an hour. It thinned as they reaches the outskirts of the metropolitan area. John studied the passing landscape of sprawling factories interspersed with vacant land of scrub brush. Eventually it turned to open green land. They skirted small villages and passed pasturelands of cattle and sheep. John even spotted a llama farm. Eventually the driver turned off to a tarmac country lane, then onto an even narrower gravel lane. They bumped along between low hills until the road eventually turned to tarmac again. The driver slowed when they reached a compound surrounded by a tall, black iron fence with sharply peaked finials at the top of each fence iron post. An earthen dike stretched the length of the fence, hiding whatever was inside it from passersby. John craned his neck to see the corner - the fence and dike took a right angle and continued out of view.

 

The driver pulled into a paved driveway cordoned off by a heavy duty black iron gate. He lowered the window and slid a card through a card reader. The gate slid open to admit them. Twenty yards on, they came to a heavily manned gate in the dike. The driver presented his identification to a guard in Army fatigues who held his rifle in ready position. John noticed the guard’s finger was on the trigger; that was worrying. The guard scanned the driver’s ID and pushed a code. The heavy gate slid open. Inside the dike they came to a chain link fence topped with razor wire. Its gate slid open, obviously operated by the armed Guard at the last gate. Inside the gate, John saw several low, windowless, flat-roofed cinderblock buildings painted a uniform black. The driver stopped in front of the second building. John saw a door of black metal with a card reader on the wall next to the knob - no sign, no address, no other identifying features. The driver got out and opened the door for John. He got out wordlessly and followed him to the door then waited while the driver/agent swiped his card in the reader. A loud click followed the swipe; the agent turned the knob and opened the door. John followed him into a brightly lit, bare room with hallways leading off three directions. The agent took the middle hall. John followed until the agent stopped in front of a bare steel door set into the white cinderblock wall. The agent swiped his card at the adjacent reader, opened the door and stepped back. “You have an hour,” he said.

 

The door closed behind John with a loud click. The sound of locks tumbling was loud in the tiny room. Sherlock stood in one corner, arms crossed across his chest. He was dressed in a loose grey tracksuit:  crew neck pullover and pocketless bottoms. The shirt hung loosely over the bottoms. On his feet he wore white cotton socks and rubber slides. And on his face, Sherlock wore an expression of surprise.

 

John threw himself toward Sherlock, pulling him close, burying his head in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, christ, I was so worried.” Even though his voice was muffled, the waiver it held was unmistakable. He clung to Sherlock tightly, fisting the cotton shirt in both hands. He continued after heaving a few breaths. “No one would tell me where you were. Greg didn’t know. There’s no police record.”

 

Sherlock had been still, his hands hanging loose at his sides, but he finally wrapped both arms around John and held him close. “John.” The emotions he’d kept in check since committing murder roughened his voice. He grasped John’s shoulders and held him away. “John,” he said again as he pulled John close again.

 

John burrowed his forehead into Sherlock’s chest and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. “Are you okay?” he managed. Sherlock stroked John’s back and murmured an affirmative response. They held each other silently for a few heartbeats before John spoke again. “Nothing has been reported in the papers or on the news. There was a short notice earlier this week that Charles Augustus Magnussen died at his home and a private funeral would be held at a later date. That’s it.”  Sherlock murmured, “Mycroft” and John nodded against his chest.

 

“What is this place?” John asked.

 

“It’s nothing. It's nowhere. It isn’t listed on any map, not even Google Earth shows it. There’s no name. It was built during the Cold War to hold Communist spies and other enemies of the state for interrogation. Now it’s used for terrorists.”

 

John gasped and looked up into Sherlock’s face. “Surely you’re not being considered a terrorist?”

 

Sherlock smiled sadly. “No, but Mycroft negotiated a deal for me to be held here unofficially.” Sherlock looked around the tiny room. “It’s better than a goal cell, don’t you think?”

 

John looked around the room. It held a narrow metal bed and a chair. A doorless wall partitioned off a white porcelain toilet, sink and small metal shower stall. Two towels hung on hooks beside the shower door. “Yeah, much better,” John answered and meant it. The overhead light showed how clean the room was. “What have you been doing?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing. Thinking. A few pushups, situps. Running in place. I haven’t been out of this room since the day after Christmas.” He showed John four small pinch-made bruises on the back of his arm. “I’m keeping count of the days.”

 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John breathed. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s jaw. “I’m pissed as hell at you, you know. What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

 

Sherlock gave another small smile. “I wasn’t thinking. I just acted on impulse, to keep you, Mary and the baby safe.” He took John’s hand in his in and entwined their fingers. “Can you forgive me?”

 

John shook the fistful of shirt he still held. “Of course I forgive you, you idiot. I just wish I hadn’t listened to you and left my gun at home.”

 

“I bargained a guilty plea in exchange for all charges against you to be dropped.”

 

John’s jaw dropped. “I thought Mycroft had worked his magic.”

 

“He did. I haven’t actually been charged, so I haven’t entered a plea. But I did offer that, for you.  It also helps that the head of the Security Committee is a client.”

 

‘Lady Smallwood.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Too late for her husband, I’m afraid, though.”

 

John nodded slowly. “So now what?”

 

“I don’t know. Mycroft has visited me twice. He’s trying to work out a deal.”

 

John shook Sherlock’s shirt again. “Did you have to shoot him in front of a dozen witnesses?”

 

“Next time I’ll try to find a more discrete spot.”

 

They both broke into laughter at the incongruity of Sherlock’s remark. Their eyes met as their mirth died down and John breathed, “Oh Sherlock,” as he pulled Sherlock down for a kiss.

 

They kissed as if were the last taste they’d have of each other. Sherlock backed John up against the narrow bed then pressed his weight against John’s chest. They tumbled together, ending up side-by-side, John’s back against the wall with Sherlock's knee between his legs. John wound his top leg around Sherlock’s and his arms around Sherlock’s torso, closing the small gap between their bodies.

 

“Mycroft assured me privacy for this hour. No camera, no microphones,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips.

 

“And we’ve already wasted five minutes,” John said as he pushed Sherlock onto his back and kissed him. He pushed the lose track shirt up to his armpits. Sherlock broke the kiss to jerk the ugly thing over his head then work the buttons of John’s cardigan loose. John helped by unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt, then sat up and jerked it over his head, cardigan and all. Sherlock pulled him back down, kissing him over and over again until they both panted. He pulled at John’s arse with both hands to grind John’s hip into his erection. They both groaned.

 

Impatient hands tugged hems and worked buttons until they finally lay entwined, naked, on top of the rough woolen blanket. John cupped Sherlock’s jaw as he looked into his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to tell Sherlock, but words just would not come. Instead, he dipped his head and began kissing Sherlock’s neck, sliding lower in minute increments over taut muscles and Adam’s apple, until he laved the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s neck. He’d reached as far as possible in his cramped position so he rolled Sherlock onto his back, straddling his thigh, leaving a wet trail ever lower over pectorals, ribs, abdomen and pelvis until Sherlock was trembling below him.

 

At long last, John slowly left a trail of open mouthed kisses up Sherlock’s swollen prick. He sat back to admire the wet trail on Sherlock’s smooth, hot skin. Sherlock raised his head and shoved the single thin pillow behind it. He gave John a pleading look. John looked up in time to catch the look and understand it’s meaning. He smiled and ran his fingertips up the ropy vein in Sherlock’s erection. John knew that under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have snapped something like, “Well get on with it,” but today, every word and look took on greater weight. He held Sherlock’s gaze as he lowered his mouth again, letting it fall open as he tongued the tip of Sherlock’s glans. Sherlock sighed when John took the entire head into his mouth and closed his lips loosely.

 

He knew that Sherlock loved, simply _loved_ felatio more than any other sex act. If there was any chance that this would be their last time alone together, John wanted to make it memorable.

 

Sherlock groaned as John slowly worked his foreskin down with lips and tongue, taking time to run the tip of his tongue around Sherlock’s corona. Up and down John’s head bobbed, lips lose on the upward motion and tight on the down -  the technique he knew that Sherlock liked best. He pulled off with a low ‘pop’ then kissed up and down the shaft again, steadying Sherlock’s flushed erection in the palm of his hand. Sherlock now kept up a constant stream of breathy sighs, pants and hitched breaths.

 

John settled lower between Sherlock’s legs, folding his knees under his body so they would fit on the small bed, nudging Sherlock’s legs further apart. Sherlock had to bend his knees sharply to fit. He reached around Sherlock’s thighs to cup his buttocks and teased his thumbs against Sherlock’s premium.  His reward was a keen, so John continued teasing over the sensitive skin.

 

Sherlock raised his hands over his head to grip the low metal headboard. He placed his feet flat beside John’s torso and used the leverage to lift his hips. John hummed and smiled at Sherlock with his eyes. With that encouragement, Sherlock rocked up into John’s mouth to meet John’s rhythm. His moans grew louder as John took him deeper and deeper with each thrust, until John’s nose was buried in the nest of sable hair at the base of Sherlock’s cock.

 

Sherlock let go of the headboard and threaded this fingers through John’s hair as his release tightened his bollocks. John cupped them with one hand as he continued to tease Sherlock’s perineum with the other until Sherlock tensed and came with a groan, knotting John’s hair tight in his fingers.

 

John released Sherlock with a soft kiss and burrowed his forehead in Sherlock’s thigh. His shoulders began to shake and a wet sound escaped his throat. Sherlock sat up in alarm. He gripped John’s shoulders and pulled him up to his lap. “What? Are you alright? Did I…”

 

Shaking his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, John cut him off with, “No, no. It’s just,” followed by another soft, wet sound. Sherlock stroked his hair, his back, his shoulders. “I know, I know,” he murmured. He leaned back against the hard, cold headboard and continued to stroke John’s back. They sat in silence for a while, until Sherlock broke it by asking, “Do you want me to … ummm.”

 

“No, no,” John said, shaking his head where it lay on Sherlock’s shoulder. He tightened his arms around Sherlock’s torso. “I don’t need to. I just want to be here with you.”

 

Sherlock hummed then returned to tracing John’s spine. A knock sounded against the door and a voice barked out, “Five Minutes.”

 

John lifted his head and looked into Sherlock’s face. “We’d better get dressed.”

 

Sherlock wave his hand dismissively. “Let them come in.”

 

“I care, Sherlock.” John rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Get dressed.”

 

They dressed in a hurry then sat on the bed with John’s arms around Sherlock. Many thoughts swirled in both of their minds, but they remained silent, kissing softly.

 

Another knock on the door was followed by the sound of the lock being turned from the outside. John moved forward and made to stand, but Sherlock leaned heavily against him. For the first time in their brief rendezvous, John saw fear in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“One moment please,” Sherlock called out. “Please, give us one moment of privacy.” The metallic slide of locks turning stopped. He turned to John and ran his hands over John’s face and neck.

 

The panicked light in Sherlock’s eyes intensified and John pulled him close, hugging him tight. “It will be all right, Sherlock. It will. Mycroft will work something out. Just. Hold on a little longer. You can. Hold on, please.”

 

“You love me,” Sherlock nearly whined.

 

“Yeah, I do.” The door began to open. “Remember that, Sherlock. Just hold on.”

 

Sherlock rose when the dark-suited guard stood in the doorway. John grasped him by the upper arm and looked up into his eyes. “Hold on, Sherlock. Promise me, you will.”

 

“I will,” Sherlock promised. “I’ll try.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you DulcimerGecko and MissDavis for your beta skills with this fic. All the kudos to you!


End file.
